


Comes and Goes

by pateofthecitadel



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Developing Relationship, F/M, Happy Starks, Modern Westeros, On-Again/Off-Again Relationship, Recreational Drug Use, Safe Sane and Consensual, Secret Relationship, Slight Age Difference, Stark Family Fluff, Work In Progress, a happy if obnoxious theon, a horrible painfully drawn out progress, background Arya/Gendry and Robb/Talisa, hes a GREENseer, i feel silly just writing that tag but of course jojen smokes weed, mix of books and show, no underage sex just underage shenanigans, really bit of a fix-it for robb/talisa in the background to heal my soul
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-08-09 07:24:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 19
Words: 111,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7792216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pateofthecitadel/pseuds/pateofthecitadel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jojen's sister starts looking at Bran differently. He doesn't really know what to do with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Grove by Long Lake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb, Jon – 20. Theon – 19. Meera – 18. Sansa – 17. Arya – 16. Jojen, Bran – 15. Rickon – 11.  
> Mood: Monica Heldal – Boy From The North; Carla Morrison – Todo Pasa

** The Grove **

After much goodbye-ing, Eddard finally convinced Cat to let their son go. “He’s fifteen, he’ll be fine. His brothers were his age when they first stayed away on their own.”

“They had each other if I recall.”

“Yes, and Bran has Jojen. Probably better off for it. Come on now. Don’t want to embarrass the boy.” Ned rubbed her arm as he guided her away, back to their van, a hulking black SUV parked on the flat stretch of grass before the cabins. The car was _just_ large enough to cram all the kids into it: their five children, Jon, and maybe even Theon if he was tagging along (to bring the dogs meant a second car).

While the Stark household consisted of six kids total, Jon was the son of Eddard’s sister, adopted into the family after his parents’ death. Jon hadn’t even been talking yet and Sansa wouldn’t be born for another two years. Jon had only ever known the Stark household as family, and in kind the kids only saw Jon as their brother.

Bran tried to give his mother an encouraging smile as she looked back at him.

His mother had always had a hard time watching her kids slip away from her into adulthood. And as that childhood accident of his loomed ever present in her mind, it was always hardest with Bran.

Bran would only be staying a month at a summer camp. All of his older siblings had already been, following in the tradition of their father and his siblings. This was, however, the first time Catelyn had to drop off one of their kids alone. Robb and Jon had gone together. And despite Sansa’s pleas to be excluded from what she called a tradition consisting only of rashes, swamp water, and blocked toilets, she and Arya had been sent together. Their youngest Rickon was still two years shy of the required age, and Ned had thought it would do Bran good to go before school started separating up his class and began university prep. Eddard’s good friend Howland Reed had suggested letting Bran go with his children which Ned had seized on as a compromise.

“He won’t be alone, Cat. He and Jojen have been playing together since they were boys.”

 

Like the Starks, the Reeds were of the North. When Bran had still been just a babe, the two families lived quite close to one another. But as Eddard’s work traveled south to the capital, so did the family, and it was there in King’s Landing the children grew up and enrolled in school. Not that the Starks would ever not be Northern. Besides the house in the King’s Landing suburbs, the Winterfell Manse remained them as their truer homestead. They’d return there on holiday, and the two oldest Stark children never truly lost their Northern accent.

Growing up, the Reed boy and girl would be dumped unceremoniously into the sprawl of Starklings, perhaps once or twice a year whenever it was their parents traveled south.

When first they met, Bran hadn’t known what to make of the Reed boy born a few months ahead of him. Jojen had been born early. Too early. It was said that he had barely pulled through. He was never a strong child like his sister. On the other hand, the only life Bran had known was full of playing Nightswatch-and-Wildings with his sister Arya, climbing up the thick trees that grew behind their house, and getting snowballs thrown at him by his older brothers and Theon. Whenever he brought Jojen along, the boy would usually wind up getting hurt in one way or another.

One time Robb had nailed him with a snowball, forgetting that even young Rickon was more robust than Jojen. Jojen didn’t begrudge them anything, but blood began to bloom under his nose, quickly, spreading over the arm warmer Arya pressed against his face to stem the flow. When Meera found them she had been beside herself. She had nearly screamed at them, but even through his nosebleed Jojen still managed to calm everyone down.

It was only a few years later Bran had truly grown to like spending time with Jojen. One winter Bran had been climbing, annoyed he had to stay behind with Rickon once again while his older siblings would visit their Uncle Benjen. He had taken it upon himself to climb the taller trees at the back of the forest to prove, either to himself or to everyone else, that he didn’t need to be included to have a good time. He had never been up all of these older trees, their branches were farther apart and they looked down on the rest of the forest, higher even than the trees that shaded their large house. When he reached the top of this particular one, he sat on the sturdiest branch he could find at the top. Snow was lightly falling over the house, the tops of the trees below, further out beyond the sloping hill. For a few seconds, he forgot all about the noisy bickering in the Stark kitchen, Uncle Benjen, or his father telling him that tantrums were only for silly boys.

Eventually Sansa had come looking for him. When she spotted him she marched over, calling up to him to stop his sulking and come to dinner, and that he could visit Uncle Benjen next time. “You won’t prove to anyone you’re old enough to come by behaving like a baby,” she yelled up.

He didn’t feel like cooperating. “Fine, I won’t go then either!”

Even high as he was, he could hear her sigh from the tree’s base, cold and impatient to get back inside. “Bran, our mother cooked you dinner. You want her to throw away that hard work? Is that how you thank her for thinking of you and making you dinner?”

 _Fine_.

He swung down from his branch to the next one, and the next. Sansa watched him with her hands on her hips, tutting. He had been almost halfway when his foot landed on the next branch. In the tiny space between that moment and the next, he realized this branch was not strong enough. But his weight had already shifted. He tried to reverse but below his footing the branch already snapped with a definite ‘ _crack_.’ His foot fell through the open air underneath and he went with it.

Later on, he’d dimly be able to recall he had heard Sansa scream.

When next Bran opened his eyes, he was in the hospital room. The one in which he stayed for the following months.

By the time they allowed him to go home, the snows had long melted and soon passed into a sweltering summer. They told him that in time he would walk again but not for several more months. Bran sat on his bed in his corner of their house, fanning himself with a paper fan, a stack of books laid beside him. His legs stuck out in front of him, tied to the metal bars that kept them straight. Distant splashes and happy screams traveled through the walls and into his room from where outside his siblings threw water at each other to cool off.

He hadn’t spoken much since returning home and had barely smiled. It was better to stay there, alone, in his room. Whenever one of his brothers or sisters came up to spend time with him, he felt vaguely like he was keeping them from something more fun.

But before long the Reeds were back for the summer holidays. And Jojen didn’t mind sitting with Bran.

They spent the remaining month of holiday there in his room, chatting the hours away, playing and trading cards. It was since then Bran had always been happy to see Jojen.

 

In the end Catelyn had consented to send Bran off on his own, given that he would have his best friend with him, and if needs be the two of them could rely on Jojen’s older sister who was also going. (Rickon had loudly protested once he figured out that Catelyn’s new plan was now to send _him_ to camp with their cousin Robin.)

Bran could still see his mother’s face through the car window. He wish she wouldn’t worry about him so much. He gave her another confident smile, waved goodbye. Although her eyes still shined over-bright, as she fastened the seatbelt across herself she did slowly return his smile and nod back at him.

When at last their van disappeared over the hill, Bran turned to survey the cabins before him. One of them would be his temporary home for the next month, where he and Jojen would be bunking. Boys Cabin #4.

The summer air was full of distant conversations throughout the camp. Girls calling out to their friends, boys trying to find their cousins or their mates.

He tried to ignore the small pang in his chest, very much aware he was alone. Once again, his older siblings had already moved on without him. But, like before, Jojen was there. He stuck his head out of their cabin doorway. “Your mum finally cut the umbilical cord, has she?”

 

It was only on their third day when Jojen told him that Meera knew of some place nearby they were to sneak out to.

“Whereabouts?”

“I don’t know, she didn’t say. But she said we have to check it out.”

“I don’t think we’re really supposed to—”

“Come on. We’re going.”

With each passing year, Jojen had grown stronger. He had suffered 2 seizures as a kid and was still at risk, but his doctors had given their partial go-ahead for Jojen to participate in sports, at camp, at most physical activities within reason. Not that Jojen particularly wanted to participate in sports. He didn’t like them and, ever since his fall, Bran didn’t either. But, like all the Reeds, Jojen did enjoy striking out into the wilderness far more than any normal person should.

 

After lights-out that night, Bran trudged behind him, practicing in his head what they could say if they were stopped by a counselor. Jojen didn’t seem the least bit worried.

“What do you think will happen if they catch us skiving off?”

“They’ll _flay us_ ,” Jojen said sarcastically. “I see Meera. Come on.”

 

“Heyyyy.” Meera grinned once they joined her on the outskirts of the camp grounds, marked by the tree line of the surrounding forest. Among the boys, Bran and Jojen were still on the short side of the spectrum but already both of them had grown past Meera. Meera was short and she was always going to be short. “Come on, my mate Megga told me about this place.”

Bran figured he’d have another go at getting an answer. “What is it exactly?”

“You’ll just have to wait and seee~,” she said drawing out the last syllable, already marching off into the woods. They followed after her. After a few minutes of making their way through the trees, she asked from up ahead, “So, Bran... Catelyn was able to let you go?” Jojen snorted.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bran said grumpily. “Really the only reason she let me come was because your dad promised her you two would babysit me. I’m fifteen. It’s _camp_. It’s not going off to war.”

“She’s relying on us to steer you straight? Yikes.” She pulled a face of exaggerated dread. “I’m glad your mum can’t see me now. She can be a scary lady.”

“Don’t tell me,” Jojen said by Bran’s right. “One time she caught me showing Bran that movie Theon showed us. I thought I might die. Right there in Eddard Stark’s solar.” Meera laughed but Bran pursed his lips. That was a memory he preferred to keep forgotten.

Meera stopped suddenly. “Ooo. You hear that?” They listened. “There’s a brook around here. Where is it?”

It was Jojen who pinpointed it first. They followed the sounds of trickling water to its source, a small brook that wound its way through the forest, and they began following it downhill.

They spent a few more minutes traipsing through the trees. Bran’s thoughts drifted back to the counselors’ patrol shifts, lazy though they were. Robb and the others didn’t talk much about this camp besides how tiring it had been and the shenanigans of the nuttier students. Was it strict? He thought of his mother’s face, playing out all the possible disaster scenarios in her head as she let go of him.

“Meera, how far is it we’re going?”

“Branny, Branny, Branny,” she chided ahead of them. “Your mum literally can’t get to you right now and beat your friends to a bloody pulp for making you adventure. You know, for making you _live_. So adventure.”

He didn’t say anything. If they weren’t there in ten minutes, he’d demand to know where it was they were headed or he’d start back.

But it was only a short moment before Meera stopped again, Jojen accidentally colliding into her this time. She paid him no notice. “I see it! That rock thingy over there.”

“How can you see anything, it’s so dark here?”

“Do Reeds have better eyes than Starks?” she asked in mock concern before she bounded down to the side, out to where the land flattened into a field.

He huffed. Jojen patted his shoulder. “Come on. Faster we see this, faster you can get back to the cabin of safety.” They heard Meera give a cry up ahead. “What? What is it?”

“Nothing,” she hollered back. “I just stepped in the brook is all. It curves this way—watch out for it.”

They caught up to her where the ground evened out, careful to step around where the shallow stream of water still trickled underfoot. Bran couldn’t see much since they only had the moonlight which ebbed in and out of the passing clouds. What he could see now that they were up close was the white of Meera’s teeth reflecting in the dark. She grinned with unabashed amusement as she bent to slip off her running shoes and socks.

“You should probably keep those on,” he started to say.

“Nah, this rock thingy is where Megga told me to come. I’ll put them on again for the hike back.” Behind her was an odd looking wall of rock. It didn’t look artificially made, warped as it was. But yet, standing like a wall in between the field they were in and the dark thicket of trees behind it, it seemed oddly placed there on purpose. Maybe it had once been a rudimentary wall of some bygone dwelling.

“Alright, what’s up with this rock thingy?” asked Jojen.

“Let’s see!” She crossed the distance and went to make her away around the edge of it, towards the side that faced the trees, a shoe in each hand. Jojen and Bran followed behind her. As she disappeared around the bend they heard her inhale sharply.

Admittedly, Bran was curious now. He wanted to see whatever it was and then they could go back. Although he did somewhat resent Jojen’s ‘cabin-of-safety’ comment. He had _used_ to run off into the woods all the time. Not to mention Meera had a point. They had to get their irresponsible gallivanting in now while it was still possible.

When he rounded the corner behind Jojen, he blinked at the sight in front of him. He felt Jojen plant himself next to Bran, smiling up at the near total-dark grove in front of them. Jojen said quietly, “Well look at that.”

The thicket of black woods expanding before them blocked most of the light here. Behind them, the top of the rock wall was dimly illuminated by moonlight that shone down over the tops of the closest trees. The trickling noise of the water had followed them in here and it seemed the brook pooled into a small pond at the wall’s base.

But what Megga had clearly told Meera to come see were the hundreds of blinking lights floating about the grove, little specks wafting in the air. It almost looked as if they had stepped past the clouds rather than into another forest.

“What is this?”

“They’re fireflies,” Jojen said quietly. “I’ve never seen so many in one place though. Nor out this late.”

Bran spotted Meera’s outline nearby. She stood still, looking up. “Megga told me that the fireflies in this forest are spectacular. And she said this was the best spot to see them. See how we have a little way before the trees start? So it looks like they go on forever.”

“This is pretty cool,” said Jojen. “I wonder how many other kids at camp know about this.”

“Dunno.” She chuckled softly. “Megga only found it because her cousin Margaery told her about it. And some boy had brought her here.”

Bran tried to ignore their chatter. Something felt off in his chest, like his heart was beating faster. Was it anxiety? The glimpses of light winked against the black expanse. He felt the summer breeze graze over the top of his skin, heard it rustle through the grass. Quite abruptly, the image of snow falling over the top of his parents’ house swam into his thoughts.

“A boy brings Margaery Tyrell and Margaery brings her cousin Megga?”

“Yeah. So Megga can bring a boy. It’s the circle of life.”

“Right. And you bring me and Bran.”

“Isn’t that sad?”

Jojen noticed Bran was staring off in concentration. “Bran?”

“Hmm?” He pulled his mind back to the present, back to the grove. “What?”

“What’re you thinking about?”

“I was looking at them.” He pointed unnecessarily at the fireflies.

“They are lovely, aren’t they?” Meera agreed in a hushed tone.

 

They spent a few minutes there to soak it in. Jojen let fireflies land on and fly off his hands. Eventually Meera stepped back into her wet shoes and they left the grove behind them to start the trip back.

Bran could tell Meera slowed her pace up the ascent, careful to make sure that Jojen wouldn’t tire himself out by trying to keep up. They were starting to be able to see flat camp grounds through the trees now. In five minutes or so until they’d be creeping back into their own cabins.

Meera stopped, stretching her arm out to Jojen ahead of her. She whispered now. “Look. Down the other side of the hill, where I’m pointing. Do you see it?”

From behind them Bran tried to make out what lay at the bottom of the shaded slope on their left. “…the lake?”

“Yeah. It’s not the camp’s part of the lake though. It’s for the surrounding houses.”

“So?” asked Jojen.

“Let’s check it out. They don’t allow us on the lake except for that shitty lagoon part.”

He asked again, “…So?”

“Come on. Now’s a good time to check it out.”

“No, it’s late already.”

Meera found Bran in the dark and wrapped her arm around his. He stared down at her. “ _Bran_ wants to come, don’t you, Bran? You’re the only one who doesn’t want to go Jojen.”

Jojen rolled his eyes. “You’re not tricking me into another hike right after that one. I’m off to bed.” He kept walking.

“Well fine!” she hissed, now that they had to keep their voices soft. “We’ll have fun without you! Come on, Bran.” She steered him down towards the bank below. Bran’s feet went with her but he twisted his head to look over at Jojen. Clearly spent, Jojen didn’t bother looking back, waved them off with a lazy hand.

 

** On Long Lake **

The shoreline started at the bottom of the hill. Meera tiptoed carefully across to where a dock stretched out onto the lake. Bran followed her, puzzled as to what exactly she was up to but figuring that he’d probably only have to humor her a bit longer. _Does she always stay up this late?_

She took her shoes off again, placing them on the grass just before the dock. Then she started out across the wood planks, small boats meant only for 1-2 people tied to every other post.

“What are you doing?”

“Come on.”

He bit the inside of his lip, looked back at the forest behind them. It was scarier once you were outside it, looking more like one large, dark mass rather than the individual trees. He shuffled his feet after her.

Meera had reached the end of the dock where it finished in a small horizontal stretch, resembling a ‘T’ shape. She sat down, arms stretched behind her, eyes bright as she waited for him. Everything was a laugh for her. Ruefully, he supposed if he were more like that he’d probably live longer.

When he reached her and bent to sit down, she drew in her arms, lowering her back against the dock to stare up at the sky.

“When’s the last time you lay on the ground to look at the sky?”

“Hmn? I don’t know.”

They laid on the dock, almost at contrasting angles. His eyes adjusted to the dark expanse up above them. “Huh. It looks like the fireflies.”

She hummed. “Yeah.”

The sky was pretty. Even with his parents’ house almost an hour outside of the capital, they still had residual light from downtown which reflected on the clouds above. But here nothing reflected back at the sky. The only light came from on high. The moon and the stars shone out crystal clear in the blackness, purple clouds faded against the backdrop. But he didn’t know what else he was supposed to get from this after five minutes. He fidgeted his shoulders, cramping against the dock’s crooked surface.

Meera broke the silence. “I like your parents.”

“What’s that?”

“Your parents seem happy.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean they seem like they love each other.” _Oh_.

He couldn’t deny that he was lucky. Both of his parents came from prestigious families, old money. And yet they had succeeded at remaining above the scandals and gossip that usually stained Westerosi high society. But still, his parents were just parents. “Yeah, I guess so.” Meera sighed. He tried to look over but, lying as he was, he couldn’t see her face.

“Your whole family is really cool.”

“Yeah.” He smiled warmly to think of them. “I like them. What’s it like growing up with just two of you?”

She chuckled darkly. “It’s okay. I’m glad I’m not an only child. I couldn’t handle my parents all by myself.” She sat up next to him now, stretched down to lie on her stomach in the same direction as him. “I don’t know what it would be like in a bigger group. It’s nice, just me and Jojen. He has no choice but to suffer me.” Bran smiled.

He loved his siblings, but he didn’t know if anyone ever could come close, as a sister, to Meera. She was dedicated to her little brother. The Stark kids had been a smidge frightened of her until it was they learned how to play gently with him.

“What’s it like in a big group of siblings?”

“Hmm. I guess we’re not as close as you and Jojen,” he said, sitting up himself because his back had had enough. He hugged his knees instead. “But it’s not about ‘closer’ or ‘closest.’ You might hang out with one of your siblings more than the others, but it’s not like you love any of them any less.”

She glanced up at him. “Do you hang out with them as much as they hang out with each other?”

“What do you mean?”

“I dunno. You always struck me as a bit of a loner. Well, maybe not always.”

He didn’t know why she was so interested. “Do you wish you had more brothers or sisters?”

“No.” Her voice was quiet. She was picking idly at the wood beneath her fingers, like to give herself a splinter.

He wondered again what time it was. “Meera—”

“Did you know my parents are splitting up?”

He hadn’t.

“…Your mum and dad—”

“Are splitting up. They’re probably going to get a divorce. They’ve been doing trial separation. That’s why me and Joj have been spending more time down south with you guys. My dad wants to move away for a bit. ‘Clear his head.’ And I think he’s happy to hang out with your dad. You know, they’re old buddies. We’ve been splitting our time between King’s Landing and back home it seems like. But even mum thinks we should go to school there.”

“I…I didn’t know.”

“Jojen didn’t tell you.” She frowned. “I don’t know how he’s taking it. I think he’s…okay. I don’t know. Normally I always know.”

“I _know_ you always know.”

“He just seems so _unphased_. Like he doesn’t care. Which makes me think he _does_ care, so much so that he’s hiding it. But I don’t know why. He’s never hid things from me before. And he didn’t tell you either.”

Bran didn’t know what you were supposed to say. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well,” Meera said, pushed up from the dock. She sat similarly with her knees popped up in front of her, leaned back nonchalantly, an annoyed expression on her face as she stared out over the water. “What can you do?”

Should he pat her back? Hug her? Sat as they were, he couldn’t exactly reach out to her in any way that wouldn’t be awkward.

She let out a long breath. “I’ll be fine. It’s Jojen I worry about. He’s really close with our mum.”

“Should I ask him about it?”

“Yeah, maybe. Whatever you feel is right.” She shifted away from the lake now to face him. “Sorry for dragging you out here.”

“No, no. It’s cool.”

She shook her head sweetly. “You’re too accommodating.”

“No, I like it. I never _do_ things, you know?” He gazed up at the stars once more and couldn’t help but to smile at the empty, serene night air. “I like doing things like this.”

When he lowered his head again he saw that Meera was smiling too. But her eyes were on him, not the sky.

Meera was quite different from him. She made him laugh when it was the three of them but he was remembering now he didn’t quite know how to act around her when it was just them two. There was something about Meera that had always been bold. She was quick to boredom. Usually she was looking for an adventure or some place new to discover.

His eyebrows rose.

“I’m glad you like it,” she said finally.

“Yeah.”

Elbow propped up on her knee, she rested her jaw on her hand. Even as her brow furrowed, the corner of her mouth curved into an amused smile. “You looking forward to start university prep?”

“I guess so.”

“Exciting times.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” she said, swinging her knees under her elbow a bit. “You’ll officially no longer be a kid.”

He scoffed, staring at the water. “Seems a bit a late for that.”

“Oh. I see. Already a man grown?”

“No.”

She was _still_ staring straight at him. He made himself scrutinize the dock instead. But, feeling the silence stretch on, he furtively glanced to the side a few times to check if she was still looking. And she was. It was almost making him flush.

“…What?”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re handsome?”

A little laugh burst from him. “ _No_.” Well, that wasn’t exactly true. “I mean…besides my mum.”

The businesslike expression that she had had on her face collapsed as she broke into a laugh. She covered her mouth with her hands to try to stifle it.

“Go on then. You’re taking the mickey.” He shook his head. But it was good to see that bleak look she had when mentioning her parents disappear. He had never seen Meera somber before—it felt unnatural.

Her laughter dissipated and she regained control of her breath. ‘Hoo _o_.’ Then she propped up her head again and went right back into that concentrated gaze.

“ _Stop_.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“ _Stop_.”

By now his face must have been red. She chuckled again, looking away out of mercy.

“You’re too easy rattled.” He couldn’t think of anything to respond to that. “Is your class gonna be the same? Same students?”

“Erm, not all of them. It’ll be sort of mixed.”

“What about your mates?”

“Well, even if we’re not in the same class, we’ll be in the same school.”

“And them? They started dating each other yet?”

“What?” Bran laughed. “No. I mean, some of my classmates have, yeah. But not my friends.”

“Aww, why not?”

“I dunno.” He smoothed down the jean fabric over his knees, straightening it.

“Are you nervous about it?”

“Nervous about what?”

Was is strange to hang out just the two of them? When was the last time that had happened? It’d always been little bits and pieces when the three of them had been hanging out. Waiting for Jojen outside the loos at the movie theater. Bran sitting in the back of Meera’s car, patting his legs absentmindedly, as they waited for Jojen to fetch whatever he’d forgotten before she’d drop them off somewhere.

The air in his chest didn’t seem to be working right.

Bran was well aware he had problems with anxiety. Ever since the accident, he could have bouts of vertigo or extreme apprehension when faced with the prospect of doing something new, especially something dangerous. Legally speaking, he _could_ obtain a permit to drive. But even with his siblings’ teasing, his father’s nagging, his mother’s encouragement, Arya swearing angrily that this was ‘ _the last time_ ’ she’d be his chauffer, Bran ignored them, content to ask people to drive him where he wanted to go for the rest of his life.

This though. This felt different. He didn’t want to look up from the dock.

“All that stuff,” she went on. “I remember. I was nervous, before. Only at the beginning. People were paying so much attention to who’d done what. You could feel really scrutinized, you know?”

“I guess there’s some of that.”

“It gets easier.” She perked up a little, sat up straight. “I think the worst part is the anticipation. Fearing the unknown. Having to learn something new. Psyching yourself out. It stressed me out for like a month or two, but then I got over it.”

Bran nodded, swallowed. _Is she done?_

Meera’s gaze was still upon him, direct and unwavering in a way he didn’t know how to respond to. The tilt of her head was inviting. But he didn’t know…anything of what to do with that.  Just as a sort of obligatory response, he replied, “Oh.”

The corner of her mouth curved into that smile again. Serene and reassuring and yet needling him. Bran didn’t look away but he sat, unmoving, breathing steady. _Why is she smiling at me like that?_ His mother had told him he was handsome, but he had come to realize that was just a mother’s lie. He wouldn’t let himself believe it now either.

“So…,” he asked, filling the silence. “What happened? Did you just change your attitude?”

“Actually a friend helped me out. Showed me the ropes.”

Bran didn’t know how to respond to that except to steer his attention back onto the surface of the lake, calm but for the white flashes of reflected moonlight that rippled in the breeze.

He could still _feel_ Meera’s gaze. Heat crept up his neck.

“Which friend?” he asked, stupidly.

Her grin widened. “Megga. At first.”

“Oh.”

The cogs in his brain seemed to be working rather slowly. He thought dimly that any sane person would be pleased to find themselves being deliberately flirted with by Meera Reed. Meera was…But Meera would never be interested in him in a thousand years, he thought that was obvious. And yet there she was, gleam in her eyes. But right now all he could process was the inconvenience of being thrust into a situation that hadn’t been on his mental preparation list.

“You know,” she said, scooting herself forward on the dock so that she was sitting alongside him now, her knees grazing his jeans. “I could help you out.”

“What?” Bran couldn’t help but swallow again, his throat felt uncomfortably dry.

“Well…who’s going to teach you? Is it going to be Jojen?” She poked at his leg with an accusatory finger.

He jerked his leg back a little in surprise. His arms fell away from his legs so instead he let his hands test the surface of the wood to prop himself up. He gave a quick shake of his head, not answering her question but dismissing it with a small, breathless laugh.

A moment passed.

He had been looking away, so when her hand skimmed over his knee, he jumped. She rose her eyebrows at him slowly. “I’m not going to bite you or attack you. Why are you so nervous?” She pressed her lips together, then went on, “Bran, it’s me. If I’m making you uncomfortable, just tell me. You’d tell me, right?”

He thought he had made to say, ‘Yeah.’ But what came out had sounded more like a meaningless noise under his breath. He could not look in her eyes anymore. Instead his eyes settled on her mouth.

When she came to accept that murmur as his answer, her grin grew wider. Then she controlled it, tried to impose on herself an expression of neutrality. It almost worked, apart from not completely succeeding in wiping away that smirk. Her hand rested down on his knee, cupping it lightly.

He sucked in his next breath. He hadn’t meant to do that.

He looked back to her. Her small smile remained, unperturbed.

“Listen, it’s just occurred to me: who better than me, right? You’ve known me forever. So it doesn’t have to be scary. There won’t be any pressure, it won’t be high-stakes.” Seeing as he didn’t pull away, Meera spread her fingers against the fabric, both to calm and egg him on. “I wouldn’t mind. Showing you.”

She must have been leaning forward because now her face was very close to his. His eyes darted back and forth over hers, searching her for a sign of what to do. He opened his mouth but nothing seemed to articulate besides worried little half-words.

“Shh. Just relax. You get so caught up in your own head sometimes.”

He breathed out. So did she. He could feel her breath float over his lips.

“It’s easy. Just close your eyes. Don’t do anything. This’ll just be a dry run.” He stared, confused. Her voice was barely over a whisper. “Close your eyes.”

It took a surprising amount of courage to do it. He closed them though.

He could _feel_ her face before she made contact. The warmth that glowed out from her, the untamable halo of curls that always fell in every which way, the faint smell of her skin. Then he felt the side of her face brush his, felt her lips softly fall over his own.

She had said not to do anything. So he didn’t, shifted only slightly. It struck him as strange how _unstrange_ it felt. By all rationale, this was bizarre. He had seen people kissing a million times in the movies. But he had never _been_ kissed by anyone, not in this way. He had drawn a line between those kissing adults in the movies and himself and he had figured that crossing that line would feel stranger.

Not so. He was struck by how pleasantly _normal_ this felt. Like of course it made sense to have a girl’s lips brushing his own, to have Meera’s face tucked this close to him.

She pulled back an inch or two. He opened his eyes experimentally.

“See? Not bad. Not scary. Easy. Now, this time—same deal: nothing scary. But this time, when you feel me move, part your lips. No big change. Pretty much the same.”

“Okay.” He was surprised to hear his voice.

She scooted up a little. Her face felt so close to his. And he found that he liked it there. He shifted himself forward so that her face would be closer still. She gave him an approving hum, subtly nodded. “Close your eyes.”

 _Alright_. It was easier this time.

He felt her crowd against him again. Even with his eyes closed, he could feel the curve of that grin as she tilted her head, leaned her mouth onto his. Her lips parted slightly and he vaguely remembered his instructions. His mouth opened slowly, still under hers.

In that moment, he figured Meera must have been lying when she said this would be pretty much the same. It immediately felt different. The sensation alone of someone’s mouth. Her mouth was wet, and it seemed he wanted more of it. Her lips moved on an inhale and her momentum. So did his. Her hand was gentle on the back of his neck.

Meera drew back, changed the tilt of her angle, pushing forward again. He sensed a heat rising inside his chest. He still had the impression she was smiling as she pulled him against her. He felt the sudden sensation of what it was like to have someone slip their tongue shyly into his mouth. Now the heat in his chest strained. Unknown to him, his hand had moved to cup under her jaw, slid back, grabbed the nape of her neck through her hair.

His breathing had become markedly louder. He would have been embarrassed but Meera’s had too, so maybe it was okay.

When she pointedly pulled back, he opened his eyes. She looked like Meera. But her eyes were wide, alive, excited. Her lips were flushed and swollen-looking. She took in a deep breath. And he had been right, she was smiling.

He lowered his hand. His brain was taking a longer time than normal to start up again.

“Yup,” she breathed. She rubbed a thumb over his bottom lip which was hanging open. He closed his mouth and her arms returned to her side. “That’s pretty much it.”


	2. Summer Camp (cont.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb, Jon – 20. Theon – 19. Meera – 18. Sansa – 17. Arya – 16. Bran, Jojen – 15. Rickon – 11.  
> Mood: Monica Heldal – Follow You Anywhere; Vance Joy – Georgia

After that night on the lake, Bran hadn’t found himself alone with Meera again. And in any case, the camp schedule made it impossible for him to spend much time dwelling on the matter.

The counselors didn’t allow sleeping in. At the crack of dawn, they’d burst into the cabins to rally the teenagers for morning ritual. Different counselors assigned different wakeup exercises. Bran and Jojen’s counselor preferred the lake.

Long Lake twisted and curved. Standing at the camp’s own stretch of water, Bran couldn’t see the docks to where Meera had dragged them. Their portion was the lagoon, partially isolated from the rest of Long Lake by a reef.

From their banks' furthest inland point, the reef lay much farther out compared to where the docks had stretched to. More than twice that distance at least. Long ago, the reef must have started out as naturally-occurring but had come to since be reinforced with cement as people wore it down with use over the years.

Bran spent each morning lugging himself out of bed only to mope down the hill and into the shallows. The philosophy was to wake the kids up each morning with a bang by forcing them to jumpstart the senses. For the junior boys, that meant swimming four laps to the reef and back before they’d be allowed to shower and eat.

“ _IN!_ ”

Bran shuddered each time. The small separation between the lagoon and Long Lake made the water no less freezing. After the first two mornings, Jojen decided he had had enough. He spoke with their counselor about his doctors’ concerns regarding ‘physical excursion.’ He even waved around one of his inhalers as proof (inhalers which he almost never used). From then on, Bran was treated to the sight of Jojen smirking smugly from the shore, sarcastically cheering them on from where he sat.

On one of the mornings, Bran paused for a second near the shallows before swimming out again. He tried to catch his breath. “ _Looking good, Stark_.” His head snapped up. A group of girls was jogging around the bend. He knew that some of them had to do laps around the grounds for morning ritual.

He spotted Meera. She winked at him as she ran by, laughing. In the next second, the group had already reached beyond the lagoon’s bank.

“YOU CAN PAUSE WHEN YOU’RE DONE,” came the counselor’s shout from the other side.

“Yeah, no pausing!” Jojen jeered.

Bran gestured his hand at him, giving him the fig, and struck out again into deeper water.

After that, he had been a little uncoordinated, finding it difficult to get his thoughts back on track. He felt uncomfortably aware of keeping a secret. He didn’t _want_ to have a secret from Jojen. But something in his gut sensed he shouldn’t tell Jojen about what happened on the other side of the lake. Not because Jojen was some sort of grouchy traditionalist, nor even because of a friends-sisters line which may have been crossed.

The real reason he wouldn’t tell Jojen was because the nature of it. Fleeting. Not real. Bran didn’t feel like telling anyone.

 

A few hours after the sun set each day, the lights in all the cabins were switched off. Not that that succeeded in stopping the undercurrent of chatter throughout the campgrounds. Occasionally there would be the additional creaking noise in one cabin or another of somebody sneaking out.

Bran and Jojen had bottom bunks, one next to the other. After they spent a few minutes going over the day’s highlights, Jojen would eventually turn over, tucking his head into his pillow to drift off to sleep. Bran would have a few moments to himself, staring up at the wooden planks supporting the bunk above him.

She probably kissed him to have a laugh. He wondered if she’d do it again. If _he_ should initiate it if she didn’t.

He decided he wouldn’t. The few times they did see her, when she left her mates in the mess hall or around the night-fires to come sit with them, he would pretend nothing had changed, just like she was doing. Like it didn’t even come up on his radar of things to mull over.

 

When at last the final day of camp came, Bran listened to Jojen’s rapid litany of complaints about the depiction of Crannog peoples in one of the skits preformed earlier. They were the only two left in their cabin. A few boys had departed even before the ending ceremony, being picked up by parents who couldn’t stay until the afternoon. Sansa was supposed to be picking Bran up, driving to Long Lake for the practice with Robb accompanying her as a driving coach. That would lend itself for an interesting trek back.

“They made it sound like we never had a system of government until merging with the rest of the North. How in all wintery hell did they not get a failing grade for that?”

“It’s camp, not school. We don’t get grades.” Bran chucked the last of his stuff into his backpack. He pulled up the sheets of his bunk to check nothing had fallen down the sides.

“Well, the counselors should have corrected them then, shouldn’t they? ‘The North introduced the Crannogmen to early, structured monarchical rule.’ What does the term ‘Marsh King’ mean to them?” he muttered to himself.

“Have you finished packing?”

“What? Yeah, yeah. I just need to pack my inhaler. Do you have it?”

“Why would I have it?”

“Well, I don’t have it.”

Their door pulled back and Meera hopped in, her things already apparently packed away in the huge backpack she was now shrugging off onto the floor. “Hiya.”

Bran nodded hello at her while continuing to shake his sheets about, making sure nothing was hiding in them.

“Meera, was your group at that session with the skit about Crannogmen?”

“What? Oh, who cares about that? You ready to go soon?”

“I need my inhaler.”

“Where is it?”

“I don’t know.”

She sighed, sitting down on Bran’s bunk, which was closer. He supposed he should stop fluttering his sheets around in the air then and set them down. He put his hands in his pockets, looking to Jojen.

“Why did you lose it?” she asked him.

“To ruin your day.”

“I’m going to leave you behind.”

“Great. I’ll go live with Bran.”

“Bran, would your family accept him? Why though? You know, I’ve heard that the Crannog people didn’t even have _a system of government_ until other people taught them how.”

At that, Jojen howled exasperatedly from behind his bunk where he was searching on the floor. Meera snickered.

He stood up. “I’m going to check the mess hall.” Playing with her feet in the air in front of her, Meera offered to run over there for him. “No, no, I’ll be right back,” he said as he slipped past her and out the door.

Bran shuffled his feet.

Meera got up from his bunk and crossed over to Jojen’s. She began to check it herself, inspecting in between the bed frame and the wall, lifted the mattress to peek underneath it.

Bran sat where she had gotten up from. Robb had texted ten minutes ago that he and Sansa were half an hour away.

> _Im not going to tell Sansa to drive faster bc she hasnt really gotten the hang of turning yet and we wont pick you up any faster if were dead._

“I love riling him up,” Meera said as she gave the floor a once-over. Bran looked up from his phone, checking if there were any updates on their ETA. “So, did you have fun at camp?”

 _Not really_. “Yeah.”

Things like summer camp had far too much emphasis on sports and team spirit for Bran’s taste. He missed his computer at home and the solitude of his room. He did feel a little healthier, his back felt straighter, having exercised as they did every day. But there was no way he’d carry on that incessant schedule when back on his own free time.

Seeming satisfied with her search, Meera turned in place, smiling at Bran who looked away to his knees. He popped his feet onto the edge of the bed frame, angling his legs to the side so they would fit in the cramped space.

“That’s your bunk, huh?” she asked, gesturing at him sitting tightly wound on the edge of his bed. He tried to make an effort to keep his arms loose in a way he hoped appeared nonchalant and relaxed.

“Yep.”

“Where all the magic happens?”

“Pfft. _Uhh_ —no.”

She chuckled. It was a sweet sound. Bran glanced back at her face. She was grinning at him again, like she had on the docks.

She had light freckles on her cheeks. They had become browner in the sun over the past month. _I bet she’s freckled everywhere_.

“Can I ask you something?”

“…I suppose.”

“I just wanted to, um, double check. That was your first kiss?” He was glad he kept his face straight, didn’t react. That probably looked like being at ease. “Back on the lake—was that your first?”

“Umm…”

“I’m going to take that as a yes.”

“Alright.”

She lowered her eyes demurely for a second before flitting them back up again. “You know, you weren’t bad. And for your first time as well. Nah, you weren’t bad. You were a bit nervous is all.”

“…Do you go around kissing people and then asking them about it?”

“Only innocent boys who make vulnerable prey.” He laughed. With his laugh, he felt a little less small, felt his nerves ebb more into the background. “Wait, scratch that,” she said, frowning. “That makes me sound like a pedo.” He laughed again, hugging his knees in front of him absentmindedly.

She considered him for a moment. “I wish you knew that you don’t have to be so nervous.”

“Um—”

“Ask yourself: what’s the worst that could happen?”

“Don’t underestimate my imagination when it comes to imaging worst case scenarios.”

That brought a smile to her lips. “I’m only a person. So what if you embarrass yourself in front of one person? The world is _full_ of persons. It’s not important. You don’t have to worry about what all of them think.”

“That…that’s not how it works. People being _persons_ doesn’t negate anyone’s anxiety.”

“Do you have anxiety?”

“I have the capacity to have anxiety,” he said, somewhat obstinately.

She shook her head disapprovingly. “You Starks—so pedantic. You know, I was awful my first time.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I lived.”

“What, with Megga?”

“Oh no, not that. Because Megga was telling me what to do. My first time with a boy. It was after one of those stupid little school dances.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying not to smile or blush. “Well, if _you_ were awful…”

“Oh no, you were definitely not as bad as me. Believe me.” She looked away, as if she were literally looking back on the memory. “I may have tried to bite the guy.”

“You what??”

“I don’t know!” She covered her face in her hands. “That wasn’t a part of Megga’s lesson. I thought it was…creative. I thought you were supposed to be creative.”

Bran laughed incredulously. “I’m glad you stopped doing that then.”

She shook her head, still covering it with her hands. When she lowered them, their eyes met. She blinked, bit her lip for half a heartbeat.

She moved forward. He froze as she closed the space between them. She paused for the smallest breath of a moment before she reached her hand out around his knee and swatted his legs down off the ledge of the bunkbed, towards her.

He yelped, not having expected that. His feet landed on the floor. She had yanked him out of angling away to where he sat now, staring up blankly at her face, a knee on either side of her. She stood before him, a hint of her smile still visible in the curve of her lips. She settled her hands on his shoulders.

“See? No need to be nervous. Right?”

“…You’re not going to bite me, are you?”

Her mouth dropped open in amused offense. Drawing closer, she said under her breath, “Why, you cheeky…well I might just have to now.”

His hands had nowhere to go with her this close. He leaned on one to brace himself on the bed, rested the other gingerly on the curve of her waist.

“So, you’re not getting uncomfortable again, right?” Her face was very close to his.

“No,” he breathed. “No, I’m…f…” _I’m fine? What kind of answer is that?_

“You’re cute,” she whispered, lifting his face in her hands and bowing her head until her lips brushed softly over his. He opened his mouth and reveled in that faint scent of hers. Her mouth was so warm. Her lips felt softer than before, as if she were being even gentler than the first time.

She pulled her head back, searching him with her eyes to make sure he really was okay. He looked back at her, mouth hanging open slightly. Then he leaned his face forward, catching her mouth again with his. It re-engaged her. He could feel her pushing back, straightening up so she was above him again. Her lips didn’t feel as gentle anymore, pressing hot on his, parting as she tasted him eagerly with her tongue.

One of her hands was in his hair, grasping it, pulling him straighter. When he drew back an inch to gulp down a breath of air, his eyes caught sight of her shiny, moistened lips and he surged forward again. He could sense her chest rising and falling quickly; she must be enjoying it.

Her other hand found his arm propping him up on the bed, gently brought it toward her. She was showing him where to place it. When both of his hands were covering her waist, he gripped down harder on the fabric of her jeans.

He wanted to tug on those belt loops of hers until she would lose balance and fall on top of him, scandalized. Tug on them until, when she’d fallen onto his lap, he could roll them over so that his body would cover hers.

He didn’t though. His hands stayed on her waist. His fingers reached tentatively and he felt the soft skin of her stomach under her shirt. She hummed, bringing herself closer still, but then froze rather suddenly. She lifted her face a few inches.

He was out of breath. He only saw her, her head turned away to the side, listening.

She jumped backwards, pulling the hem of her shirt down and throwing her hair back to re-set it.

He didn’t move for a second. His lips felt swollen. His hands were still in front of him in the air as if an invisible waist were there. Chuckling, she hissed, “Fix your hair.”

He heard Jojen’s quick steps up the cabin’s porch stair. Still dumb, he dragged a hand through his hair. His hands had only just dropped to his side as Jojen walked back through the door.

“I found it. It had fallen under one of the tables.”

“Oh, good.”

“Okay, we’re off Bran. I’ll see you next week, yeah?” Jojen threw his inhaler into his backpack and swung it over his shoulder. When he swiveled around, he stopped. “Bran?”

“Yeh?”

Meera was grinning broadly on Jojen’s side. Then, forcibly composing herself somewhat, she said, “Bran, are you good for a ride? Do you need us to drop you off anywhere?”

“Hmm? Oh. No. No, Robb and…Sansa are picking me up.”

“Okay!” She bent and slipped her arms into the loops of her backpack. “We’ll be off then. See you later, Bran.”

Jojen’s brow furrowed as Meera sauntered out of the cabin. “You sure you’re alright, dude? We don’t mind waiting until Robb and Sansa get here.”

“No, no,” he waved him off. “They’re supposed to be here any minute now so…”

“Okay. See you later man.”

“See ya,” Bran said, clearing his throat since his voice sounded rather weak.

Bran followed Jojen out of the door. Meera evidently had already collected their car from the long-term parking on the other side of the grounds. It stood on the stretch grass before them. While Jojen tossed his backpack into the boot of their car, Meera caught Bran’s eyes from the driver’s seat, resting her arms against the wheel. She winked at him. Then her expression softened. One of her hands left the steering wheel to give him a little wave goodbye.

He blinked back at her.

Jojen was opening the passenger door. He waved at Bran before getting in. Bran waved back, not knowing whether or not he should feel guilty or weird.

As the Reeds’ car turned and headed off towards the road, Bran saw his family’s second car appear over the hill. This car was just your average four-door sedan, built more for safety than flash. It was a good thing they weren’t driving Robb’s car; that one revved into speeds not safe for new drivers (or any drivers really) in mere seconds.

As the two cars passed each other, they slowed down and idled for a moment. They must have been saying hello. Bran went inside to collect his things. He gave the empty cabin a quick survey before he heard them pull up outside, wheels crunching on gravel and grass. He left Boys Cabin #4 behind, stepped out onto the porch as Sansa killed the engine.

“Bran!” Robb cheered, popping out of the car. “A hard Man of Summer now.”

“How was Camp Rashes?” asked Sansa with a warm smile, standing up from behind the driver’s seat door.


	3. The Birds and the Bees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb, Jon – 21. Theon – 20. Meera – 19. Sansa – 18. Arya – 17. Bran, Jojen – 16. Rickon – 12.  
> Mood: Adrian Lux – Teenage Crime (Radio Edit)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-let interjection! The next chapter will be a real one that covers how things moved on from the last chapter, not this one. Just some profanity-heavy banter.

Bran put down his textbook, _The Lives of Four Kings_. He hadn’t finished the assigned reading. Instead, he’d been grabbed by the sudden notion that it was too warm a day to spend cooped up in this dimly lit room.

The inclination probably stemmed from the current stillness of the Stark house. The manse was nearly empty. Their father was at work, Arya and Rickon were off with their mother, and Sansa must still be at Jeyne Poole’s. These days, when they were home from university, it seemed that Robb and Jon spent more time out of the house than in. They were free to take off in Robb’s car or on Jon’s motorbike whenever they pleased.

Bran left his room, not exactly sure where it was he was headed. Maybe he could bike to Jojen’s.

Most of the Stark kids lived on the third floor, the top floor. All of them except Bran and Rickon. The two youngest had the honor (inconvenience) of sharing their floor with their parents’ bedroom and the upstairs common rooms like Eddard’s solar. Bran crossed the second floor landing. Before he reached the stairs, he slowed to a halt. He heard something. An odd noise. A _rude_ noise.

The only way he could think to describe the noise was that of a woman during sex. But it sounded strange. Something like the mix of caterwauling and a cat in heat. There was something else now. Laughter?

It was coming from outside. He stood on his tiptoes, better to peer out of one of the raised windows that accented the upper floor trimming.

Theon was down there. He was standing by the backyard garden, the apparent source of the noise. His head was flung back in the throes of mock-passion. Accompanying him were Robb, hunched over from laughing, and Jon, chilling on the garden bench caught somewhere between a grin and a grimace.

Theon was saying something to them now. His movements jumped about from beat to beat.

Theon’s stories usually made Robb laugh; laughter came easy to him. Jon didn’t take to Theon’s gratuities as well as Robb did. But still, usually he preferred Robb’s company even with Theon over the company of the other upper crust boys who went to their school. The three of them were always hanging out.

Bran could hear Robb objecting. Theon responded with an animated rebuttal but Bran couldn’t make out the words. 

He padded down the stairs and towards the back of the house where the three older boys were visible behind the patio’s glass doors. Bran approached from the side, going through the dining room, and paused behind one of the windows’ thick curtains. He could hear them clearly now.

 

_Theon:_ Well, I knew that night was coming so I…I saved it all up. I wanted it to be special, you know? But holy fuck, that was a mistake.

_Jon_ : We don’t want to know.

_Theon_ : I’m talking buckets here.

_Jon_ : Uch. That is rank. What is wrong with you?

_Theon_ : Well, I didn’t know she was going to do **that**. It’s okay, it’s okay though. I saved it. I mean after my own, shall I say, ‘unfortunately timed self-expression,’ I managed to bring it back up. Make it worth her while.

_Jon_ : ‘Self-expression?’

Robb gathered his breath, eyes shining from pained laughter.

_Robb_ : You brought it back up?

_Theon_ : Well, no, not _that_. I mean the night. I salvaged it.

_Jon_ : There’s not a thing in existence that would ‘save’ that night. Forget about the night being ruined—year ruined.

_Theon_ : No, no, no. It was fine. I just serviced that little love rub of hers and it was fine.

_Jon_ : Yeah right.

_Robb_ : What about the mess?

_Theon_ : We moved over, you savage!

_Jon_ : Gross.

_Robb_ : You talk as if there’s just some automatic switch you can flip on or off for the girl.

_Theon_ : Yeah, it’s called the clitoris. Is this _new_ to you?

_Jon_ : Hang on—this happened in your car? UGH, when did this happen?

_Robb_ : Pfft, like a clit is an on switch? Just flip it and there you are. Never mind that you _completely_ destroyed the mood. It doesn’t work like that.

_Jon_ : I’ve sat in your car. Oouh, and in the backseat as well.

_Theon_ : That _is_ how it works if you know what you’re doing.

_Robb_ : And you do?

_Theon_ : Of course I do. All it takes is for one bad review to ruin your reputation. Think I’d compromise my reign as Sex God? You’re having a laugh. I’ve already learned this shit. We’re talking proper study here.

_Robb_ : That would be a first.

_Jon_ : Porn is not studying.

_Theon_ : You can’t neglect style like some thirteen-year-old who’ll nut in his pants before anything even kicks off. Girls talk. You’ll be known as the pants-nutting kid. Do you know how many girls want to sleep with him? Zero. Then you’re stuck. Secure the gold, every time. There ain’t no drills man. No do-overs.

_Jon_ : No, that’s true. When your sex life consists only of disastrous one night stands, there aren’t do-overs.

_Robb_ : What—masturbation’s not a drill?

_Theon_ : **No**. That’s not a drill unless you’re looking to jerk off some other blokes’ cocks. I’m talking about _**pussy**_. Proper snatch. A little C U Next Tuesday.

_Jon_ : Given that story you just told, masturbation is a required drill for you from now on.

_Theon_ : Shut it. Now, as I was saying: pussy. Some of it’s simple enough. It’s not like you need a teacher to know where to stick it. Some of it’s trickier though. Their shit is a lot more complicated than ours. It’s all, you know, hidden. At least we have the decency to keep everything we’re about right there in the open.

_Jon_ : So, you’re the clit expert now?

_Theon_ : Expert? Mate, I am the clit _master_.

Robb chortled, shaking his head in quiet disapproval.

_Theon_ : You know, with our competition, it’s not even hard. It’s ridiculous. Half the guys in my year still don’t know what or where the clitoris is, let alone how to work it. All you have to do is show up, and you’re already in the top half of performers. My mate—Gevin—yeah? You know what he tells me? He was dating this bird for five months. Yeah? Almost half a year he and this girl are having sex. And you know what she tells him when she dumps him? He had _never_ given her an orgasm. What? What??

Theon pantomimed shock. Robb sucked in air like he’d just been stung.

_Jon_ : That’s a bit sad. Why didn’t she tell him earlier? He had no idea?

_Theon_ : Well, I ask my mate: is she good at faking? Like, is she just _really_ , really good at faking orgasms so that’s how you didn’t know? Because how could you not know? How could you not have noticed that she’s _never_ come once? You know what he says to me? He says, ‘What’s it supposed to look like when they come?’ WHAT?

Theon hopped up, tucking in his legs in the air to punctuate the question. At that, Robb broke into another fit of giggles.

_Theon_ : W-You-WHAT?

_Jon_ : Well, they don’t all react the same, do they?

Theon pointed down at Jon, eyes wide.

_Theon_ : That sounds like the words of someone who’s never given a girl an orgasm.

_Jon_ : No, they don’t, do they?

_Theon_ : What, like the difference between a moaner and a screamer?

_Jon_ : Yeah, there’s that. There’s not only that though. Some girls are loud, some are quiet. Not everyone comes in the same way. I’m not saying it isn’t weird your mate didn’t notice but it’s not like there a flashing sign or—

_Theon_ : MATE! No man. No way man, don’t tell me you’ve never satisfied a woman.

Jon scowled. The sheer energy of Theon’s boisterousness was tickling Robb. He was still laughing but he extended a hand, motioning for Theon to calm down. Theon turned to Robb.

_Theon_ : Robb, what are your signature moves?

_Robb_ : ‘Signature moves?’

_Theon_ : Yeah man. To assure a successful venture, an enthusiastic accord.

_Robb_ : Get out of here, signature moves. What is it, a video game? Combo power moves?

_Theon_ : Hell yeah. ‘ _Finish her!’_

_Robb_ : You are mental. What are _your_ signature moves, Theon? Gyrating your hips over some poor girl while trying not to accidentally call her…what’s that porn star’s name you love so much?

_Jon_ : I bet his go-to fantasy is Professor Mordane.

Theon tutted. “Don’t be sick. Alright. When I can tell I’m about to bust, yeah? When my stamina bar is all the way in the red. I just—,” he popped his thumb into his mouth and bent at the knees to mime what appeared to be wall sex. He rubbed his thumb in the air in front of him. “You just do a bit of that while you keep on keeping on. No changing up the rhythm either. Don’t switch to a new position or whatever, not if you can tell she’s close to peaking. Impressing with fancy moves—that’s for earlier, it’s too late for that now. Them fillies need consistency. You can let it build and speed up, but no sudden stops or changes. Jam it up there just right, at an angle is best. Apply some tender loving to that little nubbin. They’ll be screaming your name in no time.”

Robb chuckled at the audacity of it all. Jon wrinkled his nose in distaste.

_Theon_ : Now you can’t be a wimp about it. No being a pussy about pussy. From what some of the ladies have told me, other guys do a bit of rubbing— **if** they bother—like they’re afraid if they keep their hand there too long, a snake’s gonna leap out and bite them.

_Robb_ : That image is horrifying.

_Theon_ : They know vaguely that _something_ ’s down there. And they hope if they smack it around a bit they’re bound to land it. It’s not like there’s an auto targeting setting. If you were hammering something into a wall, would you place a nail between your fingers and then just blindly swing, figuring it’ll probably work out? A half-assed try is not a try. Don’t blow your shot by blowing your wad before she’s got a chance to get hers.

With a sardonic smile, Jon said, “That was beautiful. That changed me.”

_Theon_ : Good, something needs to change you.

_Jon_ : I do just fine, thanks.

_Theon_ : Jon, you are the type of bloke who cries on top of the girl after sex.

Robb snorted. Jon whipped his head towards Robb who covered his mouth with his hand momentarily.

_Theon_ : Don’t be upset with me just because you fail half the time.

_Robb_ : Nah, but he’s got a point.

_Theon_ : Oh, not you too.

_Robb_ : Some of the best times are when the girl gets really quiet. You know, really drawn into herself? Yeah, those times aren’t bad. Maybe it’s got something to do with the setting. Maybe sex in the toilet of a club doesn’t lend itself to the intense, quiet variety, Theon. Sounds like you’re missing out.

_Theon_ : …quiet sex?

_Robb_ : You’d be surprised.

_Theon_ : I mean…it’s quiet if her father’s sleeping down the hall or something.

_Jon_ : Oh, you are so full of shit. You’ve never had it off with a girl with her father sleeping down the hall.

_Theon_ : What, you think that’s so impossible to pull off? It’s not like _you guys_ noticed anything. Hohooo.

_Robb_ : Maybe that would wind me up if there were a single person living under this roof who would consider shagging you.

_Theon_ : Is that a challenge?

_Robb_ : Nope. A challenge would be you getting home after Jon and I saw to you if you ever harass our sisters as a joke.

Theon rolled his eyes, rolled them right over in his head until they landed on Bran.

_Theon_ : Bran!

Bran started, flinching backwards. Robb and Jon looked over and found him too now, standing by the living room curtains.

_Theon_ : Listening for a lesson, are you? _Youu lunatic_. Come ‘ere.

_Robb_ : Oh no. Don’t talk about it in front of Bran.

_Theon_ : Why? Sisters—you said sisters. You said nothing about brothers.

_Robb_ : No no, he’s too young to be subjected to the inner workings of your brain.

_Jon_ : There are inner workings of Theon’s brain?

_Theon_ : Sod that. He’s almost a man grown. Bran!

Bran hesitated. Robb was shaking his head.

_Jon_ : If Bran wants to come over, let him come over.

_Theon_ : Exactly. For once in his life, Jon is right. Oi! Bran! Come over here, man.

Bran pushed open the patio doors slowly, joining them in their little circle. He didn’t want to seem interested, but he didn’t want to seem intimidated either.

“Bran is on the cusp of puberty. I don’t want him to build his perception of sex or dating on a foundation built by _him_ ,” Robb said, nodding at Theon.

_Jon_ : Well, that’s true. Bran, maybe you should go.

_Theon_ : Fuckin’ hell. Anyways, cusp of puberty time is when you’re like ten years old, man.

_Jon_ : I think it’s twelve.

_Theon_ : He needs someone to teach him the ropes. What, is it gonna be you? You’d have to be able to say the word ‘vagina’ without dying from shame, so I doubt it.

_Jon_ : Piss off. Anyways, we’ve already given Bran the talk.

_Theon_ : ‘The talk?’ What is ‘the talk’ coming from you lot? ‘Bran, sometimes, when a man loves a woman, he marries her. And he respects her by not touching her. And he uses a condom.’

_Robb_ : Spot on.

_Theon_ : You don’t _need_ a ‘the talk.’ You need something practical. Something you can use. You know what you need, Bran? _Lysene Sluts 9._

Arms folded across his chest, Robb turned to Jon. “See this is the shit I’m talking about.” Jon smiled apologetically at him.

Not looking at his brothers, Bran said, “I’ve already seen that.” Jon’s eyebrows rose up towards those black curls that fell in front of his face.

_Robb_ : **What?**

_Bran_ : Jojen showed it to me.

_Jon_ : Ohhh. Was that that time Catelyn was yelling at Jojen?

_Bran_ : Yeah.

_Jon_ : Oh man. She was none too pleased with that. I thought that was the end for poor ol’ Jojen.

_Theon_ : _??_ I showed him that. He showed that to you in front of your mother?

_Bran_ : Well, he didn’t exactly start the video while she was in the room.

_Theon_ : What a right mess. So, has that been all your education? Where would you put your level at how versed are you in the matters of love and/or the art of dipping one’s wick?

“Hey, hey,” Robb interrupted. “Maybe you can talk about sex in front of him but that doesn’t mean you can ask him shit. I’ll be having none of that.”

_Theon_ : Ignore them, young Brandon. What percentage of your class would you say have lost it?

_Bran_ : What?

_Theon_ : I’d say for the kids who graduated in my year it’s about…75%? Then again, I really have no idea what the quiet people are up to. They could _all_ be virgins, there’s really no way of knowing.

_Jon_ : Don’t answer, Bran. He’s just being a twat.

_Theon_ : Fuck me, your boy here is sixteen years old and you’ve already got him as uptight as your sixty-year old father.

_Robb_ : Good. Better that than end up like you.

_Theon_ : Got a girl picked out yet to punch in your hymen for ya? Don’t answer. You know what’s a solid way to move things along? Tell them you love them.

“ **What?** ” Robb gasped. “What in seven—are you serious?”

Looking coolly up at Theon, Jon said, “Ah, you’ve gone and done it now.”

“What? I’m not saying you fake it or anything. I’m just saying, you know, have a liberal interpretation of what love is.”

Robb grabbed Bran around the shoulders and pulled him over to his side of the circle, keeping him protectively away from Theon. “You tell girls you _love_ them to get them to sleep with you? The clit master has to scrape so desperately? Absolutely not, that’s not on.”

“Who’s to say I’m not in love with them?!” Theon shot back defensively. “When you’re balls deep in a girl, you’re bound to—”

“I swear to all the gods, Theon,” Robb started, pointing a hand at him. “You say one more word and I will give a transcript of this to your sister.”

Theon blanched. “Hey! Who are you to meddle in the goings-on of my family? You keep her out of this.”

“Bran,” Robb said, turning to him. “You never tell a girl you love her unless you love her. Do you understand me?”

Bran nodded. It wasn’t exactly like _Theon_ would ever become his archetype for mature behavior in any case.

“Yeah,” added Jon. “Only if you love her. Or maybe if she’s just killed Theon Greyjoy for you.”

“Yeah, that’d be acceptable too.”

Theon groaned. “Save me from these bloody, dire Starks.”


	4. Reed House (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb, Jon – 22. Theon – 21. Meera – 20. Sansa – 19. Arya – 18. Bran, Jojen – 17. Rickon – 13.  
> Mood: Stateless – Bloodstream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was supposed to be 5 scenes but good god I write at the same pace as GRRM (without the intrigue nor the money). So instead I’m splitting it: 3 and 2. And apparently I write making out with more descriptions than GRRM does for heraldry, which I should edit down, but shan’t. At least not now.  
> Also, last time I stick to 1 tense. Listen my man, my bruh, sexy and otherwise fast paced scenes just feel better in present tense. So I’ll probably switch back and forth. Shame. Shame.

** House Reed **

It was fall. The leaves in the backyard were smattered brown, red, and yellow. Occasionally one snapped off its branch, wafting to the ground. Today was Aegon’s Landing, a minor holiday. But it meant a one-day closure for most places.

Bran and Jojen were already a couple months into their third year of university prep. The two of them sat by the kitchen in Howland Reed’s house, finishing up the last of the homework they had neglected over the weekend.

Howland Reed had bought this house soon after they had returned from summer camp during the first few months of their classes. It was meant to serve as a base for the Reed children during school, although for Meera less so since she had already moved away to university.

The house was under a half-an-hour bike ride from the Starks’. Bran and Jojen usually spent the day hanging out in one house or the other. Bran opined that having your best friend share all your classes had made studying much easier.

Bran hadn’t told Jojen about what happened between him and Meera. With Meera gone all the time now, he didn’t feel the need to. He had tried to imagine how he would feel if Jojen kissed one of his sisters. Somehow, it seemed to him that neither Sansa nor Arya would like it. And neither, he figured, would Jojen.

When they had started university prep, things began to go more or less along the lines Meera had suggested. Their classmates started getting awkward at an alarming rate, focused on who was linked to whom, who had done what, or where somebody ranked among the students in terms of attractiveness. Bran had remained mostly out of it, uninterested. He couldn’t say if that was due to strength of character or because already having that tryst with Meera freed him from the fear of falling behind. He supposed it was probably both.

The gossip and competition didn’t interest Jojen either. This _was_ from strength of character, Bran knew. Jojen had a clear recognition of what he liked and did not like. And he was able to hold to that, placidly. Even in their first year, among their giggling, sometimes cruelly teasing classmates, Jojen had no qualms about being openly bi. There was something about Jojen that just didn’t care when it came to the opinions of others. He cared about specific people’s opinions, certainly. Bran had to endure hours of Jojen playing him different versions of a drumbeat so he could tweak it just right, paying no heed to the fact that Bran maintained he couldn’t tell one beat from another.

It wasn’t only petty opinions that didn’t bother Jojen. Bran supposed Jojen possessed a maturity enabling him to handle whatever came at him with grace. As far as Bran could tell, Meera’s concerns of Jojen not handling their parents’ divorce panned out to be extraneous. He knew that it had bothered him in their first year, and that he found the arrangement of spending time with one parent or the other to be less than ideal. But Jojen acclimated as best as could be expected, and with generous patience.

 

Jojen leaned over to look at the sheet of paper Bran was writing on. “Which one was Rhaenyra’s firstborn?”

“It’s in the chapter.”

“No, lemme see.”

“No.”

“Mate, I refuse to memorize these stupid names. They’re all spelled the same.”

“Then suffer the consequences of that decision honorably,” Bran said, holding his sheet protectively to his chest as Jojen made to grab it. “Deplorable. You’re behaving just like Rhaenyra’s firstborn.”

“ _Let me see that paper_!”

Bran snickered as he scooted out of range.

A few feet away, Howland Reed reclined on the living room sofa in front of the TV, ignoring them. The kitchen descended two steps into the living room’s sitting space. Beyond that, the room stretched to the back wall where lay the staircase leading up to the house’s three bedrooms. Bran and Jojen usually hung out in Jojen’s room where he kept his old video game console. It wasn’t as nice as the one in Bran’s house, but in Bran’s house you also had to fight Robb, Jon, Theon, Arya, and Rickon for it.

Before Jojen could make another swipe for Bran’s homework, the front door opened. They looked up from the kitchen table down the hall to the front entrance. Meera scuttled in, grocery bags stuffed in her arms, her head tucked against her shoulder to hold the phone she was talking into.

She kicked the door closed behind her with the back of her boot, evidently in the middle of a conversation. “That’s way out of line. What did you say?”

Bran’s eyes flitted down to a stretch of milky white skin was visible between the bottom of her navy skirt and the top of her boots. Those motorcycle boots of hers, with those superfluous metal straps here and there. They had a tough, masculine vibe to them, which in Bran’s opinion accentuated smooth legs like Meera’s nicely.

She walked down the hall towards them, ‘mhmm’—ing at whatever her friend was saying.

“I didn’t know Meera was here,” Bran whispered across the table to Jojen.

Jojen shrugged. “Yeah. Just for the day. She came by yesterday evening for dinner. She’s mostly been away, catching up with her mates, the ones who are also in town.”

 

Since summer camp, Bran had seen Meera about as much as he normally had as a kid, which is to say a couple of times a year. Now that both families had started sending their kids off to uni, and with the Reeds adjusting to separated life, they hadn’t vacationed together as often. But now that Bran and Jojen were also in the same school, Bran had become something of a supplementary feature to Howland Reed’s house, much like Theon was to his.

Meera had gone off to university in the Reach. It was not so far that she didn’t come up once a month or so to their house in King’s Landing. It just so happened that, on those occasions, Bran normally stayed in his own home if whatever was giving Meera the extra time to visit also freed up time for Robb, Jon, and now Sansa as well. Per usual, Robb and Sansa were in town from uni for the long weekend. Jon hadn’t bothered this time though since it was only an extra day.

Still, Bran and Meera had seen each other a few times over the past two years. Meera: driving Jojen and him somewhere. Meera: sitting across from him at the table if he stayed at theirs for dinner.

She acted perfectly normal around him. She didn’t avoid his gaze (if he happened to be gazing), but no one would be able to guess she had kissed him from how ordinary she behaved with him. The only indication she gave, confirming for Bran that he wasn’t crazy and hadn’t dreamed the whole thing up, was an occasional hint of smirk. A sly smile she made only for him whenever neither her father nor brother were looking but he was. If he happened to look up and catch her eye on such an instance, she might wink at him, which would catch him off guard and cause him to blanche. She had to practice maintaining her straight face for that.

They never chatted on the phone. She had sent him two texts before leaving for university.

> _Take care of my brother for me_

and

> _Don’t be so nervous, Stark. You’ll do fine_

He never sent her any. But he reread hers from time to time.

 

Meera came into the kitchen and plopped the grocery bags onto the counter space, swinging the strap of her purse back over her shoulder. Taking the phone in hand now, she continued talking to her friend. “Who the hell does he think he is? I know…I know, I know. Well did she say anything?” She strode past them, waving a hand as greeting, and made her way across the living room to the staircase as the three men (or one man and two teenage boys) in the house watched her. She laughed, “No really?”

“Meera,” Howland called as she started up the stairs.

She was still chuckling. “Absolute minger.”

“ _Meera_.”

“Hold on.” Meera pulled the phone off her ear, looking down at where Howland sat. “Yes?”

“How about a ‘hello?’”

“…Hello.” She turned and was bringing the phone back to her ear but Howland called to her again so she snapped it back down. “What?”

“Are you going to put those away?” he asked, pointing to the grocery bags on the counter.

Meera put the phone back to her ear. “I’ll call you back, okay? ‘Kay, bye.” Hanging up, she pointed at the counter with the phone in hand. “Why can’t Jojen put them away? I bought them.” Howland considered it. “If the person who buys them has to put them away, that just penalizes the person who does the first chore, which is _me_. It’s always me.”

“Alright. Point taken.”

From back in the kitchen, Jojen shook his head disappointedly at her in sarcasm.

“Also your mother called. She wants you to call her back.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask, Meera,” Howland said, voice tinged with the repressed annoyance of a parent of teenagers.

She scampered upstairs. They could hear her grumbling ‘ _rrgh_ ’ before the sound of a door shutting.

Bran wondered if he should try to focus again on his homework. He watched out of the side of his eye as Howland Reed turned off the TV, sighing.

“Mnn-okay,” Jojen yawned, stretching. “Bran and I are gonna go play video games. I’ll put these away after Bran leaves.”

Bran had a feeling they should sort the groceries now. But Jojen was already gathering his things and Bran didn’t particularly want to be left alone down here. He scrambled up his stuff as well and followed after Jojen, head bowed.

 

** Jojen’s room **

Bran sat on the shaggy carpet in front of Jojen’s dingy TV. He watched while Jojen smashed buttons furiously on his controller from where he sat on his favorite, crappy, depleted chair. They were trying out the new installment of their favorite game series, this latest one being titled _A Nest for Vipers_.

Jojen muttered, tilting in his chair as if it would help his character dodge incoming attacks. “I’m tired of these motherfucking vipers in this motherfucking nest.”

Bran wasn’t listening. He thought he could hear Meera’s voice over the pings and hisses of the game, through the wall.

“Because I don’t have time, Mum!”

“Ignore her,” Jojen said, not looking away from the hoard of vipers attacking his player.

“What’s up?”

“She’s just being irritable.”

“…What like in general?” He added in a softer voice, “Oh. Like a lady thing?”

“If you count yelling at our mum a lady thing, because that’s probably what she’s doing.”

“Did they have a row?”

“Pfft. _Probably_. They’re always yelling at each other.”

“But not at your dad?”

“Well, she’s always gotten along better with Dad. And we’ve been spending more time with him.”

“What about you?”

“Oh well, I quite like our mum,” he said indifferently, putting his feet up on the short, stunted table which he used for work when sitting on the floor.

Bran looked at his feet stuck out in front of him. He could see why Meera had called Jojen’s reaction ‘unfazed.’ He didn’t talk much about his parents separating or how it had been to move house. But Bran sensed that whatever Jojen hadn’t taken in stride wasn’t so bad that he hadn’t been able to deal with it alone, as he seemed to prefer on this particular matter. But still, Bran never knew what you were supposed to say.

“Fuck!” Evidently the vipers had won. “Fuck this game. You wanna play?”

“Meh.”

When Bran looked up, Jojen met his eyes with a grin, raising his eyebrows. “Wanna get high?”

That made Bran laugh. The way Jojen could just switch on cheeriness was always amusing.

Somehow, Jojen had managed to worm his way into a medical prescription for marijuana as a means to ‘alleviate the risk of seizures.’ A prescription which he had been known to supplement on the side. It wasn’t exactly a secret from his parents. It most definitely _was_ a secret from Eddard and Catelyn, however. Bran made sure his parents never smelled any weed on him when he went home. They would not condone marijuana, medical or otherwise.

“Nah. You know I don’t do that.”

“Got to live a little man,” Jojen said as he pulled out his weed box.

“I dabble in living.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“I…drink with my family even though I’m underage.”

“Paint me scandalized.” Jojen was futzing with a small amount of crushed leaves, getting the quantity he wanted for his pipe.

“Anyways. Getting high is numbing. So that’s like…living _less_.”

“Whatever you say, Catelyn.”

Bran took up the controller, tutting to himself.

 

After another hour of hanging out, in which Jojen smoked while Bran progressed two more levels in the game, Jojen began to get tired. He rubbed at his temple. “Mnf. This shit Symon sold me is stronger. Kinda don’t like it.”

“You alright?”

“Yeah.” Jojen got up from his low-seated chair. “I’m just gonna chill for a bit. Or a while.”

Bran knew ‘chill’ meant space out. This happened occasionally. “Okay, man. I’m gonna bike back to my place before it gets dark.”

“Yup.”

Jojen shifted down on his bed, arranging himself to look up at the ceiling, blowing air as if to whistle despite Jojen not knowing how to whistle. Bran smiled, patted him on the shoulder before picking up his backpack.

Bran closed Jojen’s door behind him and wandered over to the stairs. He had just reached the railing when he heard a voice whisper ‘ _psst_ ’ behind him. Twisting his head, he saw Jojen’s door was still closed. He turned all the way back around. Meera’s room stood opposite to Jojen’s. The door was slightly ajar, behind which he glimpsed Meera lingering in the small space that was visible.

He raised his eyebrows at her. “What?”

She crooked a finger, motioning for him to come. Then she disappeared behind the door.

Bran glanced about the landing. Jojen had started to play rock music from his room. He preferred Dothraki bands which were typically drums-heavy since Jojen fancied himself a drums legend in the making. Bran couldn’t hear what Howland Reed was up to downstairs. Howland’s room was on the opposite end of the second floor to Jojen’s and Meera’s.

He swallowed. He didn’t know why she was prompting him now, out of the blue. And yet he found his feet crossing the landing back towards her door. He squeezed himself through the thin crack left open.

 

** Meera’s Room **

They stood face-to-face just behind the unshut door. Face-to-chest more like, as both he and Jojen had continued to grow after camp unlike Meera who was stuck with her height and lack thereof.

She was standing quite close to him. She seemed to be scrutinizing him with those curious, brown eyes of hers, her mouth breaking into that familiar grin.

Bran set down his backpack. He cleared his throat, arms at his side. He paced back a little since she was so close he had to tilt down to look at her. “Hi,” he mumbled, trying to find something he could fix his eyes on in her room.

She took a step forward, closing the space. She reached up and her hands clasped playfully on buttons of his polo shirt. He felt like his throat evaporated, being caught in a sudden heat. “Hi yourself.”

He supposed he meant to say, ‘What are you doing?’ but the words didn’t come out. Her smiles were always so lovely. Wicked, and lovely. He stammered. She tilted her head, waiting for whatever he was going to ask. When it didn’t come, she hooked her arm around his neck, bringing him down to her while she pushed forward and caught his mouth with hers. With her lips opening under his, she crowded him back against the door which closed shut behind them.

Bran smiled into the kiss, hand raising to her neck, to her hair. The rigid nervousness of a moment ago gone as he tasted her mouth, wet and eager, again. His other hand brushed over her face to her jaw so he could use both hands to angle her up for him.

When she pulled back, she drove forward again just as fast. She grabbed at his back, pulling him down against her, the flat of his chest bearing down on the rounded swell of hers. He almost thrummed with the pleasure of how she felt against him but he didn’t, he refrained. Privately he took some pride in that she was being louder than him, rasping noisily for air whenever they broke apart.

He hadn’t kissed her standing before. It was nice. He could use his height to push her back, her feet stepping backwards slowly, sending them into the middle of her room.

He hadn’t realized until his body pressed against hers how much he had been wanting to feel her, to kiss her, to hear her maybe succumb to this visceral part of herself. He figured he had been content to leave what happened at camp by the lakeside, a bygone summer oddity. But now, her mouth hot on his, his hands sliding up her back and brushing over those thick curls of her again…

Meera stood back, laughing breathlessly. She grabbed his hand in hers, pacing backwards, leading him with her. The back of her legs bumped up against the frame of her four-poster bed, a bed which garnered Bran’s immediate approval for its copious amount of cover.

But with her bed imminently behind them, he sputtered again, nerves spiking. She rubbed her hand soothingly over the back of his head, pausing for a moment so they could catch their breath. “Loath as I am to admit it,” she said in a whisper. He had to incline his head to make sure he caught all her words. “I’ve thought about you a few times since that summer.”

He blinked at her, gulping in air best he could with his lips pressed tightly together. Her smile reappeared as she played with the hair above his neck. “You’re cute. You’re somehow more confident _and_ just as anxious as before.”

He tried to respond, but what could he say? She leaned up and kissed him softly, delicately. His let his eyes close, opening again to look into hers when she drew back. What was she doing? Where did this come from?

And then she pulled him roughly, tripping him forward to her, whispered, “Come on,” into his ear as she dropped backwards onto her bed, sending Bran reeling down on top of her.

Bran shot a hand out to catch him so that nothing like an elbow or a jaw would smack into her. She was already wriggling higher onto the bed, tugging at his sleeves as she went for him to follow. Compelled by something certainly other than his inner monologue, which itself was semi-panicking, he advanced over her, body skimming against hers. He settled with his chest below hers, his hand sliding up into her hair as his mouth found her neck. He tasted her skin there, finding the hollow of her throat, sucking in at the flat expanse of skin and heard a low hum vibrate through her neck.

It was a bit like the first time they kissed in that he couldn’t help but note with curiosity how natural this strange new sensation felt, to lay on top of her. He had never lain on top of a girl.

His classmates had begun to awkwardly court each other. And he had gone out with some girls, made out with a few even. The most _horizontal_ he had ever been though was when a girl in the year above him, Merry, had lunged forward on him in her car. What he mostly remembered from that was how the armrest of the car door painfully jutted into his side and how he had been unable to stop himself worrying about potential passersby in the car park.

The grooves and peaks of Meera’s body felt good underneath him as she squirmed under his weight. Her hand was wrangling through his hair, the other was yanking impatiently at the top of his trousers, trying to bring him up higher, closer to her. Impulsively, Bran bucked his waist against her, expelling from her a startled gasp as she shut her eyes. He looked to her and her eyes fluttered opened. She panted softly above him.

He surged higher, cupping her jaw with his hand to bring her face to his, her mouth opening for him. He swallowed a soft moan from her into his mouth.

He kissed her hurriedly, sloppily, desperate to feel more of her.

His hand trailed down from her neck, across her collar, fumbled over her sweater. He wanted to reach out and clench down hard, feel how she felt there. But he couldn’t, it was too ingrained in him not to. But then she arched into his touch and he gripped her through the wool of her sweater. He pulled his mouth off her, sucking in air for a second.

He turned his face away from her, looking down at the rest of them, tangled around each other on her bed. He stifled another urge to rut against her. He kneaded through the thick of the fabric to the pliable feel of her breast as her chest rose and fell, him rubbing and gripping down not as roughly as he would like but rougher than he thought he should.

Under him, Meera was agitatedly fidgeting her legs, bending them up and dragging them down again with her heels digging into the heavy comforter. Part of him (the part raised by Catelyn Tully) couldn’t help but fret that she still had her boots on. _Oh, that will be a right mess to clean. You can’t have outside dirt on your bed. Who raised you, a wildling?_ For the rest of him though, the teasingly limited stretch of bare skin piqued a fervid longing to push back the rest of the skirt, expose what lay hidden and out of reach. Her legs looked like they would be soft to touch, smooth to run his hands over. It must be so nice to touch them.

When she moaned again, he grunted, bucking involuntarily.

_Okay, okay. No more._

He had to stop. This was enough. Too much. He hadn’t paid attention to the exact moment it happened but he was aware now that he was fully hard in his pants, cock rigid and straining uncomfortably. He still had to bike home. His head was swimming. He felt dizzy, disorientated.

He veered off her, leaned back onto the arm propping him up while he caught his breath. And now that they were staring at each other, he was starting to feel embarrassed.

She met his eyes as his hand opened and clenched at his side. His breathing came in uneven rushes.

She beamed up at him. Then she spoke softly, voice sounding lower and thinner than usual. “Do you remember when we were kids and we used to play chase? Or have snowball fights?”

His brow furrowed. “…Yeah.”

“That was fun, wasn’t it?”

His throat felt a little tight. _She_ was already playing with him, he could tell. “Umm…”

“You know, there’s a game that we haven’t played yet.” He blinked at her. “Do you know how to play ‘come into my castle?’” She searched his eyes, her grinning face looking at his speechless one.

This wasn’t helping the dizziness. “No.” He swallowed. It hurt, his throat was too dry.

“Do you want me to show you?”

Bran was a little taken aback when he heard himself say, in a hushed voice, “Okay,” without much pause.

She shrugged him a little further back. Sitting up, she stretched her arms forward, curving them and reaching her hands up under her skirt. Bran’s breathing began to quicken. He didn’t know… _What is she…What am I sup…_ She hitched her hips up. Her hands reappeared, dragging with them a small pair of thin cotton underwear down her legs. “Meera, bu—” Paying no mind to his stammering, she snaked them over her boots, kicking them off finally at the end of one foot.

She laid back down, looking up at him like it was normal and she hadn’t just done that.

Again he tried to swallow, to breathe, but it didn’t even seem his jaw could work properly.

Bran had been surprised up until this point at just how much he had been enjoying himself. For once, not only did he find the girl to be pleasing, he felt as if he were pleasurable himself. Like it wasn’t only him wanting to explore the girl. That she in turn wanted him. Almost like being desired. Almost at ease, almost confident.

It was true he had had those few relationships already. But they were the innocent, clumsy relationships between two virgins who weren’t particularly invested in each other. They had always split up before he ever faced an _underwear-removed_ stage. The furthest experience he had in terms of physical contact was fiddling about under the shirt of that Merry girl when she lunged at him in her car. And there was the time his classmate Wylla had put her hand on his crotch, without warning, while they were at the movies, making him jump and spill their popcorn. He had _not_ liked that.

Well, he did not feel confident or competent right now. Meera held her hand out for him, unmoving, blinking sweetly at him but his arm had turned to lead. His voice faltered in his throat. His eyes darted over her face, beseeching her for something to do. Yes, she was offering him something, but something he knew _how_ to do.

She closed her eyes slowly, nodding gently at him. _‘Don’t worry, you’re fine.’_

“I’ll show you. Give me your hand.”

Brain numb and on silent, his hand moved to hers. She wound her fingers with his soothingly.

Holding his hand in hers, she brought them down to her leg, above her knee. Her hand wound its way back around so that it was _his_ palm now that was on her skin. She began to slide them up inch by inch. His breath caught in his throat. Reassuringly, she rubbed the back of his hand. Her hand receded from his as they slipped past the boundary of her skirt. How cruel. She should have taken him all the way.

He paused for a second, eyes fixed on that first stretch of leg extending out from under the skirt, his hand covering her leg closer to him. Then he pressed forward, along the slope of her thigh. He shifted his face away, eyes fixed at a point over her shoulder.

In the back of his mind, he was aware that he was frightened to let him hand reach all the way up; he didn’t know what to do. But somehow he didn’t stop. He slowed as he neared where her legs came together. Reaching out where he couldn’t see, the tips of his fingers grazed against what feels like short curls. His fingers explored further, delved past the brush of hair. And then they bumped against something. They felt. There was a crease. Breathing heavily, he persisted. And when he probed further, slowly, at what he felt there, he parted it. His finger slipped, infiltrating, into what felt like warm, wet folds.

He turned his head down, resting his brow on her shoulder, and couldn’t help the quake that came from his throat.

He traced his hand at what he found there; Meera shifted her legs. His skin was moist now. It was slippery here. The only sound was Meera’s steady breathing, Bran’s shaking inhales, and the muffled bass coming from Jojen’s room.

Some innate urging from within, unfurling inside him, impelled him to push forward, sinking a finger into that unseen slick heat he felt down there. Perhaps Meera had wanted to keep her eyes on him, coach him. But her head rolled back now, eyes shutting as her lips broke into a breathless smile. He gazed at her, mouth open, breathing in heavy stutters as he began to pump into her. Fingers slipping unevenly, unsure, in the flush valleys that he had discovered between her thighs. When he pulled back next, he tested a second finger, slid them into her cunt as if through hot butter, shuddering again above her.

Meera hummed through lips pressed tight together. Even so, he thought dimly that he could say goodbye to his mental self-congratulation at being the quieter one. Every plunge into her brought another over-loud, shaky breath from him. _This was…this was…_ This didn’t feel like the hand lotion on his nightstand. This would feel better, if he tried it. _‘Gods save me,’_ he begged privately to himself. This would feel a million times better than the rough denim he was feeling now. This was warm, and soft, and welcoming, enveloping.

He brushed over the crest of her folds with his thumb.

Meera’s brow furrowed and knotted, her eyes still shut. Her hand shoved across his chest, twisting in his shirt.

He grunted and she groaned with him. He wanted to join her. They could explore, together, this exciting new type of pleasure they could bring out in each other. Her mouth hung open slightly, bottom lip glistening, panting quietly. She looked so good, so unbridled, lost in rapture. So fuckable. He wanted to fuck her. He choked on his breath again, returned to squeezing his brow against her shoulder.

Maybe she heard his thoughts and took pity. Her hand rose and her fingers flexed around him where he tented his trousers, cupping over the bulge that had manifested there. He hissed, screwing up his face at the touch. The rough feel of denim, even though his briefs, was frankly unpleasant. But at the same time, knowing that it was Meera pressing her small fingers over his length, sliding up and down, he could barely stand it. He wanted more.

His hand was still working her in between her legs. Bran lifted his head to take her mouth with his own, covering her completely, possessively. She groaned into the kiss. Her hand fell away to grip into the blanket beneath them while the other clung to his back, gripping his shirt as she arched up into him. He shifted higher in the bed to allow himself to deepen the kiss, to take more of her. She was steadily moaning now. He bucked his hips forward again, grinding against the side of her, desperate for some relief to the strain he felt in his cock that was missing out on everything his hand felt as it pumped into her again where she was seeping.

Her hand on his back pulled on him tighter. She rasped, “Oh god.” She started repeating his name in nearly inaudible whine. “Bran, Bran.”

He was dying, he couldn’t take this. He drew his head back to stare at her, lost, looking for help, where was he supposed to go.

And then Howland Reed’s voice came calling up distantly from downstairs. “ _Bran_.” Bran turned his head to the side to listen, not breathing; Meera snapped her head towards the door too. “ _Bran? Are you up there? Your brother Robb is here_.”

“What?” Bran whispered under his breath.

“ _Bran?_ ”

Meera’s hand thumped against his chest. “Answer him,” she hissed. “Answer him or he’ll come up here.”

“What?”

“Answer him. Quick.”

“ _Bran??_ ”

“Uh-YEAH,” Bran yelled back. He cleared his throat.

“ _Robb’s here to take you home._ ”

“Um, OKAY. I’M COMING.”

Now Meera giggled beneath him, breathless and red faced, but giggling with her hand over her mouth. He heard her mutter faintly to herself, “Gods be good.” Then she said quietly to him, “Bran.” He turned back to look at her, bewildered. She mussed his hair affectionately. Then she waited for a second. Her eyebrows rose. “Bran…your hand?”

“What? **Oh**.” He reeled his arm back, sliding out of her, causing her to wince a little. She pushed herself up from the bed, tittering anyhow. She tiptoed to the door, keeping her legs apart. She cracked the door open. Bran still sat on the bed, lightheaded, wiping his hand on his hip.

“Okay, no one’s out there. I’m going to think positive and say Jojen’s too baked to have heard that just now.” She turned back to face him, took in the sight of him sitting on her bed, wide-eyed. “Well… _you have to go_.” He stood up slowly. She helped him along to the door. “Just snap yourself out of it, breathe regularly, and say normal pleasantries. I’ll see you later.” He stepped out into the hallway; he almost fell when she grabbed his arm. “ _Your backpack_.” She thrust it into his arms.

“Um, okay.”

“I’ll see you later.” She smiled at him. Then her eyes trailed downwards and she tried to restrain the smile. “You might want to, er—” she said, snapping her fingers downwards, “readjust.”

Bran looked down and saw a bulge, unmistakable, pushing out below his belt.

“Okay. I will,” he said breathlessly. Meera hadn’t closed the door. “Go away.” He wasn’t going to shove his hand down his trousers while she stood there looking smug.

Smirking, her face still flushed, Meera conceded, bowed her head politely and backed away into her room, closing the door.

 

After a moment, Bran made his way downstairs, trying not to limp. He had tucked himself up but he was not comfortable, in many, many ways.

Howland and Robb were chatting by the front entrance. Robb stood in a way Bran had nicknamed to himself ‘his lord’s stance:’ wide gait, arms folded across his chest.

“Any time, any time,” Robb was saying cheerfully. They turned as Bran shuffled over to them. “Well, look who is it.”

Howland smiled good-naturedly. “Sorry to interrupt you boys. Were you finishing off a level? A boss fight?”

“Er, no, no. Just listening to some music. I didn’t hear you at first. Sorry.”

“Oh, that’s no problem. I was just catching up with your brother here.”

“Ready to go, Bran?”

Bran stared at Robb, trying his best not to glower at him. “Robb…I rode here on my bike.”

“Yeah, I know. I brought Mum’s car since hers has the bike rack.” Robb stared quizzically at Bran’s agitated face. “Jon popped home unexpectedly so Mum told me to come get you for dinner.”

Bran repressed a grumble. “Thank you, Mr. Reed, for having me.”

“Anytime, say hi to the rest of the kids for me.”

“Absolutely,” Robb said, shaking Howland’s hand, still looking slightly puzzled as Bran doddered past them to the door.


	5. Stark Manor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb, Jon – 22. Theon – 21. Meera – 20. Sansa – 19. Arya – 18. Bran, Jojen – 17. Rickon – 13.  
> Mood: Teen Daze – Hold

** Car ride home **

Bran stared, eyes vacant, at what happened to be in front of him. Which in this moment was the dashboard of their mother’s car. His hand was nervously clenched into a fist at his side.

It was making him feel incriminated.

He would have been fine—almost fine—if he just been given a few seconds alone, maybe in the bathroom to splash water on his face or check his appearance. Just a moment would have sufficed.

With dread, he pictured being imminently thrown to the tumult which he knew the living room must already be in. Everybody would be particularly chummy tonight, wanting to catch up with the three oldest. The dogs would be barking, Arya would be talking over Jon with questions, Sansa would be appealing their mother for one thing or another but she would be busy clucking at Rickon over the din. He hadn’t even gotten there yet and already it was too noisy.

“You want to listen to something?” Robb asked as he turned on the radio, flipping through stations.

“Nah.”

Robb searched for any generic music channel out of politeness to Bran, who didn’t seem to be much for talk at the moment. Robb paused, brow wrinkling.

He sniffed. “What is that smell?”

Bran’s thoughts had been back on Meera’s bed. He hadn’t been listening. It took him a second to hear Robb, then he paled. “ _What_ smell?”

Robb ignored that, trying to hone in on whatever he’d caught. Then his jaw dropped open in offense. “ _Did you smoke pot_?”

 _Oh, that_. Bran shook his head, heart still beating too fast. “No.”

“No? Because you smell like pot,” Robb said, glancing to the side at him.

“No, I—Jojen smoked a little.”

Robb rolled his eyes, groaning. “Oh, great. Here,” he pointed towards a plastic block fastened to the dashboard’s center vent. “Open that up. See if the liquid will come out.”

“What is it?”

“It’s one of those scent dispellers. Mum loves them; she keeps putting them in all the cars, even mine. I swear, Dad will beat you to within an inch of your life if you come home smelling like weed.”

Eddard had never given Bran a beating. He’d only gotten the occasional clout on the ear. Bran was sure their father wouldn’t beat any of them…Then again, there was that time Jon came home buzzed, having ridden his motorcycle home drunk. That got more than a clout. Bran wondered where this fell on the spectrum. For that matter, where was it on the spectrum to stick his hand up the skirt of their family friend’s daughter?

Maybe that would be considered the more permissible of the two. Something that his parents would have expected to happen sooner or later, whomever the recipient.

It didn’t matter; he preferred being charged with smoking pot. That was less private.

Bran fumbled at the edges of the plastic casing but it didn’t seem to be made for re-opening.

“Why didn’t you get rid of the smell before I picked you up?”

“Well, I didn’t know you were coming. You didn’t give me any warning.”

“I texted you.”

“What?” he said, distractedly, looking up. “Oh. I didn’t see.”

Robb’s eyes, back on the road, narrowed. “ _Did_ you smoke with Jojen? Answer honestly.”

“No. I said no.”

“Let me smell your hand,” he said, reaching out to grab Bran’s arm. Bran jumped back.

“ **NO**.”

Robb shrunk into his shoulder a little in surprise. “Why—you little shit. You _did_.”

“No, I just, will you jus—”

Robb cut him off. “Un-fucking-believable. Alright. We’re stopping before we go home.”

“Why, where are going?”

“A petrol station. You’re going to wash your hands, _thoroughly_. You think Mum and Dad don’t know how to check for smoke? Hasn’t Arya taught you anything? And I’m going to find you some cheap cologne or something to cover the smell.” He grumbled, “Puh, the things I have to do. Honestly.”

 _Well then_ , Bran thought, pursing his lips, feeling a little placated. At least this part of the evening might work out in his favor, net loss notwithstanding.

 

** Stark Manor **

The Stark Manor was warm and cozy in golden light with all the lamps turned on as the living room and dining room buzzed with all the extra activity, having everyone back for tonight. The house reverberated in the cacophony of the conversations and teasing being thrown from one sibling to another, the clink of plates and glasses as they passed around the food, and, of course, the dogs. He had been right, the dogs _were_ barking, jumping up to paw at whoever was closest to them if any of them stayed still for a second too long.

Bran spent the evening in an edgy stupor, ignoring the bustling going on around him while at the same time admonishing himself, telling himself to snap out of it and join in with them. All the while, a prickle from the disappointment earlier coursed beneath his skin.

He smelled like the sitting room of an older lady who abused the use of potpourri. Robb had the choice between a men’s body spray, marketed openly as an enhancement for insecure masculinity, and a spray meant to spruce up unwashable fabrics like cushions. So, just to tickle himself and to nettle Bran, Robb had hosed him down with the fabric spray in the gas station’s lot.

“You know, the body spray would have been just fine.”

“Nah,” Robb said as he circled Bran to get all of him. “I can keep this. Why should  _you_  get a complimentary body spray out of me saving your ass?”

For Jon being one of his favorite people, Bran had never been less pleased to see him. As they sat down to eat, he saw Robb whisper into Jon’s ear. Jon opened his mouth, just as Robb had, playing up their state of low-key scandalized. He looked over to Bran and shook his head. _Oh, how they love to lord their status as eldest siblings over the rest of us._

During dinner, the usual jabbering rolled back and forth around the table. Bran heard it and caught none of it. He kept his eyes down, staring at the food, and nudged his honeyed chicken around his plate without eating much.

It would have been better if he _could_ pay attention to the conversation. Every once and a while, he would lose track of the present and his mind would unintentionally flit back to that afternoon. Meera’s hot breathe in his ear as she groaned underneath him. Fingers digging into his arm. Silky heat, enveloping.

His cock would twitch and he’d be thrown back into the present with a little jump before hastily turning his face back to his dinner, feeling the top of his cheeks burn.

Robb and Jon threw sanctimonious glances his way whenever one of his flinches were noticeable. Like the chatter, Bran ignored them. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, unable to lapse back into ‘normal.’ The excitement that he had felt unfurl, on her bed, with her…well, nothing had ever been quite like _that_.

Bran was sitting beside his mother’s end of the table. She watched him over the top of her wine glass before reaching over to put her hand on his forehead. He buffeted her away.

“Mum, stop.”

Catelyn Tully was not to be deterred. “Did you eat something off?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“You sure, Bran?” Robb asked from the other side of the table.

Jon added, “Didn’t eat anything with raw eggs, did you? You know: undercooked cakes, pastries…brownies?”

 _Oh,_ ** _shut_** _up._  Bran didn’t have the energy to fend off their ribbing. He only returned their self-satisfied looks with one of his own, utterly unamused. It managed to subdue them not one bit.


	6. On Holiday: Mount Ironoaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb, Jon – 24. Theon – 23. Meera – 22. Sansa – 21. Arya – 20. Jojen, Bran – 19. Rickon – 15.  
> Mood: Coldplay – Sparks

It took three cars to transport the lot of them. Howland took Meera and Jojen up in his jeep. The Starks had to split themselves up between the SUV and Robb’s car to fit the children _and_ the dogs.

For the penultimate week of summer, the two families decided to finally go on a joint-holiday again, this time to the southern edge of the Fingers. They had rented a cabin on a lonely stretch along the headlands before the cliffs.

Even Meera and Arya, both of whom envied their classmates’ warmer excursions, couldn’t complain about the view up the hill from the countryside cabin. The house looked up onto the stretch of grass before the ground dropped off, plunging straight down into the waters of the Narrow Sea. Walls of rock over 500 feet high. Below the house sprawled once-cared-for, neglected tilled fields and gardens.

 

** The first day  **

On their first afternoon there, Bran wanted some time alone to decompress from the drive down. He took one of his textbooks with him, walking towards the unkempt field below.

He found a small alcove in the nearby garden. It had a private space, separated from the rest of the greenery by a row of hedges and hydrangeas. Two white stone benches adorned the small, dried up fountain at its center. He sat with his legs crossed on a bench, opening up _The Red Dragon and the Black_.

Not an hour had passed before someone inevitably found him anyways. It was Arya and Jojen. They walked by, making their way to him when they spotted a glimpse of Bran’s dark hair through the bushes.

“Hey,” Jojen called as they popped in. Looking up from the notes he had been writing in the textbook, Bran saw they had boots and nets with them. Arya was toting a bucket with her.

“What are you up to?”

“There’s supposed to be a pond fifteen minutes from here. I mean a real one, not like that,” Arya said, waving the bucket at the stained cement of the fountain. “We’re gonna see if there’s any tadpoles or frogs to catch. Come with.”

“Mmn.”

Jojen brandished his net at him, nagging, “Come on.”

Smiling coyly to himself, Bran said, “…Frog hunting? Isn’t that a bit stereotypical for a Crannogman?”

“ _Hey!_ ”

Arya sniggered.

The downtime had done Bran good. Feeling refreshed, he closed the book and stood up, adding, “Okay. I just have to run back to the house and put this back.”

“We’ll just get it on our way back. Hurry up now.” Arya hooked her arm around his so that he had to toss the book back onto the bench carefully as she hauled him away, stumbling after her.

 

However corny he might have thought of it, Bran had to admit that tadpole chasing was actually quite a laugh. The tadpoles were a cedar-y brown, matching the mud floor of the pool’s shallows to where they swam out to chill.

The three of them had to master pinpointing the hint of tadpole body outlines from amongst the murky brushwood and twigs. If they managed to spot one and approach it without piquing its notice, they’d lunge down with a net. When they caught one, they chucked it into the bucket which they had filled with pond water. When they missed, the tadpole raced off, into the colder depths of the middle of the basin. Either way, each time they made a go, mud kicked up from the bottom and swirled about, clouding the water and making it impossible to pick out anything for a few minutes.

Jojen, who didn’t want to admit that he and Meera _had_ done this a few times as kids at their grandparents’ farm, was quicker at it than Bran and Arya. The two of them had gotten the hang of it though by the time the sun hung low in the sky and they headed back, first dumping the bucket of annoyed tadpoles back.

 

The atmosphere in the house was breezy. Everyone enjoyed the fresher air up here, the last of the warm summer air blowing over the tops of the cliffs from Essos across the Narrow Sea. Hanging out as Starks and Reeds reminded them of the relaxed holidays when the kids had been young.

The cabin had a glass sunroom that hung out over the hill’s slope, supported by pillars underneath. Its three glasses walls presented a panorama view of their slice of headlands. With the background behind them of the sunset’s shadows cast down at the sea, Meera and Sansa sat in one corner, catching up and gossiping. Robb and Jon listened curiously to Ned and Howland’s discussion of the latest political fallout in King’s Landing. A few of the dogs were dozing in a huddle.

If he wanted to, Bran could listen to the politics talk, or he could join Arya, Jojen, and Rickon who had gone into the other room to watch cartoons. It being the first day of the trip, however, his reserves of extroversion had depleted again. He got up from his chair next to Eddard, kissing his mum on the cheek as she came to join them, giving her his seat before he took off upstairs.

The third-floor loft, the very last of the cabin’s available space, had been relegated to the three youngest boys. He plopped down onto the bed on the far side of the room, under the tiny window. Too lazy to pull up the sheets, he rooted out his old, grey sweatshirt from his pack, embellished with the team name WOLVES on the front, slipped it on, and laid back.

He had it in his head that he would close his eyes for ten minutes before rejoining everybody. But when he jolted awake from a clap of thunder, the room was dark and he saw that Rickon was dozing on his own skinny bed across from him.

Bran rubbed his eyes, blinked at the window outside from which he couldn’t see anything except the occasional blinding flash of white lightening. Disoriented, he padded downstairs to see what time it was or who was still awake.

He found the entrance room empty except for Meera standing with her back to him, in front of the open front door, staring out into the blackness. Almost all the noises from within the house were being muffled by the noise of the deluge outside, but still he could hear the murmur of quieter, more languid conversations from the sun room.

“What’s this? When did this start?” Bran asked as he crossed over to her to peer out from behind the door as well.

Meera turned to see who it was. “Yeah. It just started a few minutes ago. It started raining kind of quickly but quietly. And then it started picking up. And now it’s crazy.” She gave him a once-over, taking in the sight of him. She asked, grinning, “Did you fall asleep?”

Bran’s head fell back towards the ceiling. He groaned, “Ohh, I left my book out there.”

“What book?”

“My textbook.”

“Oh.” She frowned out of sympathy before leaning over to check the sky again. “Well, you can always replace it, right?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Bran messed his hair grumpily. “It’s just, I had my notes in there. I was all proud and everything. I can’t believe I forgot it. All that stupid work.” He sighed, trying to remind himself to let the disappointment go. He felt a stab of annoyance at Arya even though he knew it was more his fault for forgetting. “Well, I suppose having done them once will help when I redo it when we go back.”

“Where did you leave it?”

“In that little garden down the hill. There was this cool little bench area. Oh well, it’ll be all drained by now.”

“Mmm,” she agreed. She glanced to the side at him. “Hey, I’m getting a tad chilly. Can I borrow that sweatshirt?”

“Hm?” he said, distracted. Looking over, he saw she was in jeans and a summer-y camisole, arms and neck uncovered. “Oh yeah.” He shrugged it off and held it out for her.

As she slipped into it, looking pleased, she said, “Thanks.” She threw the hood up over her hair and flashed him a quick little grin. “Wish me luck.”

“What—”

She bolted out of the door, sprinting down the porch into the field below. Bran rushed to the open door to find her but she was already disappearing into the darkness, screaming as she went, somewhere between laughing and genuinely shrieking.

“ _OI!_ ” he yelled after her.

The noise of her screaming was being drowned out by the rain. “OH MY _GOD_. _FUCKIN’_ HELL.” There was another clap of lightning.

 _Fuck me_. What else could he do but run out after her lest he be a total ass?

With a quick, irritated little sigh before the plunge, Bran ran out, skimming down the porch stairs and bounding down the slope towards the garden, trying not to slide on his bare feet.

After one or two seconds sprinting under the downpour, he thought, ‘ _Oh, it’s not so bad_.’ Then he realized he was wrong. He felt like he was somehow taking a bath (a cold bath), standing up, and in which the bathwater was shooting out sporadically but somehow still covering him completely. He nearly slipped. It was difficult to make out the shadows of the surroundings in the dark with the rain smattering over his eyes.

He heard Meera’s hysterical giggling again. From the way the ground was leveled out now, he knew the alcove must be around here somewhere. And then he saw dark block of artificially square hedges and darted forward, slippery feet steadying when they hit cement beneath them.

Meera had just turned around, book in her arms. He could barely see her face, under the hood and with her hair fallen in front, but she was laughing breathlessly. “…Come on man, I have a feeling it’s raining.”

“What in seven—”                

She ran forward, grabbing his arm with one hand, holding the book in her other, and pulled him back with her. As the two of them fled up the hill he thought that the rain was somehow wetter than a bath. In a bath, the water stopped at a certain level. Out here, the water kept pounding down on his head, down his back, over his front.

At least it was an easier run back since the house was lit and stood out like a beacon in the dark. Meera made it first through the door, flying into the house. Close behind her, Bran rushed in, muddy feet slipping on the floor. He staggered for a second before she shot out on arm to steady him.

Completely winded, trying to catch their breath, they stood at the cabin entrance. Bran clutched at a stitch in his side.

She was soaking; he was soaking. Their clothes dripped onto the wood. She put her hands on her knees, that blasted book still in her hands, breathing in deep.

“What…the…,” Bran tried to scold at her, but he didn’t have enough air in his lungs to finish.

“You didn’t have to follow,” she panted. “I had it perfectly under control.” Standing up slowly, she looked at his feet and added, “ _And_ I had shoes whereas you don’t.”

“I had to go after you. Why did _you_ go? It’s just a book.”

“It’s just rain.” She was grinning again, looking breathless and so very proud of herself. “Here.” She handed him the book.

Bran took it. The covered was badly warped. He flipped it open. The first dozen of pages and the last dozen of pages seemed equally as bad, but the center had held up surprisingly well besides its outer edges.

“Thank you. But wow, it was so not worth that. That was crazy.”

“Yeah. The scars from this rain will never heal.”

He narrowed his eyes at her as she laughed at him.

“…Thank you.”

“You’re silly. And you didn’t need to follow. Well, maybe you did. On your honor as a Stark, I suppose.”

He tutted at her.

“Here,” she said again, unzipping the hoodie and peeling it off her.

“That’s why you wanted it?”

Shaking her hair, sending droplets of water flying about, she muttered, “Short-haired people don’t understand what a time commitment wet hair can be.”

He took the hoodie from her, holding it over his book. “You should have asked me if it was that important, I would have told you no.”

“Where’s the fun in that? If anything, I needed an excuse to run out there.” As her breath leveled out, she put a hand on her hips. “Rainstorms like this don’t come along often. You gotta seize the opportunity to run around in them.”

“Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

He shook his head slowly at her, looking down. His eyes were drawn to the side by the strips of white shine where water had dripped down her neck and chest. Her collarbone, the shadows and curves of her chest—they stuck out from the camisole’s thin straps.

He had seen before. But the sight looked just a little different now, shimmery bands catching the light on her skin where the water had trailed down her front.

His eyes wandered back up and grew wide when they found her face. She had been watching him, bemused, her eyebrows rising as her lips slowly broke into another glib smile. “You alright there?”

He didn’t answer but to look away. Clearing his throat, he said, “Anyways…thanks.”

“Oh, Branny Bran.” She started to shuffle towards the stairs, walking uncomfortably in wet clothes. As she passed him, she swatted his shoulder affectionately. He glanced down at her, close, and she paused, her eyes finding his.

He didn’t move. She swallowed self-consciously and he took a step back, turning his head away to avoid her eyes. He was trying not to blush.

She said, in a hushed voice now that the moment had grown quiet, “I’m gonna go change. Don’t you run out into any more storms.”

Bran stood by the door, dripping, as she went up. He’d have to go up to the other bathroom and wash now too.

He _was_ happy to have his mangled notes. But she made him feel silly, exposed again. Maybe this little crush he had on Meera was making him dislike being around her now, since she knew about his but she had so clearly gotten over her flirtation with him.

It made him feel…childish.

From behind him he heard an outraged intake of breath. Spinning around, he saw Catelyn’s eyes boring down at his mud-soaked feet on the floor.

 

**The third day **

One morning Robb and Jon put forth the proposal of a sightseeing outing which they had read was one of the must-see local attractions. Apparently, the sunrise from the top of Mount Ironoaks, an hour drive away, was an experience to behold. Unless they wanted to wake up and drive over there around 2:00 in the morning, it made the most sense to drive up the mountain tonight and spend a few hours resting there before heading back.

While all the kids wanted to go, somehow the parents deemed a sunrise not worth spending a cold night on top of the mountain without a bed, especially as the sunrise was already quite beautiful just along the cliffs.

After minimal persuading, Catelyn had been the last of the parents to give their blessing. That night, Robb and Meera were to take the rest of them up, Robb driving the SUV and Meera driving her father’s jeep.

“I haven’t been up Mount Ironoaks but I have slept on a mountain top before,” Howland had told them. “It will be cold. Colder than you think. You hear me now telling you that it will be cold, so you’re getting ready for it, thinking of it as cold in your head. It’s colder than that.”

 

Bran stood, yawning next to Jojen, as they waited for Jon to come down. They had all thrown on their warmest clothes, feeling a bit dumb standing about with coats and scarves in the evening’s perfectly pleasant air.

Jon finally came down, hauling with him all the blankets he could fit in his arms.

Robb, Jon, and Sansa had gotten it in their heads that they wanted to drive up the three of them, the oldest. They would have taken Meera as well if she wasn’t needed to drive the other batch.

“Meera, are you okay to take the young Starklings?”

She nodded serenely at Robb, climbing into the jeep as Jojen crawled into the passenger seat.

There was a scuffle among Arya, Bran, and Rickon over who would have to sit in the middle. Bran and Rickon tried to lay the responsibility with Arya, saying she needed the least amount of legroom. In one of the few ways she resembled their mother though, Arya was not to be cowed. She shoved Rickon into the middle, Bran taking the other side.

 

It hadn’t taken quite an hour since there were no other cars on the road. They made their way up the mountain, driving past the park facilities a mile from the top, and at last pulled up onto the flat stretch of land which served as the overlook on the summit. Meera parked her dad’s jeep next to the SUV. Robb and Jon were standing by its open passenger row door, talking to Sansa still sitting inside it.

Catelyn had begun to fret before they left. “What if there’s no mobile reception? How will you let us know if you need help?”

“We’ll manage,” Robb assured her.

“What if there’s other people there? Questionable people?”

“Cat,” Ned had said. “It’s better the kids go with Robb, Jon, and Meera to look after them. Better that than go with their friends from university. We don’t know what kind of influences their friends might be but we can trust Robb, Jon, and Meera.” Robb nodded.

Cat wrung her hands all the same. Robb put his arms around his mother’s shoulders. “Mum, relax. It’s a chaperoned family trip to watch the sunrise. It’s not like to break out into an orgy or ritual animal sacrifice.”

As they arrived, though, Bran thought to himself that if he ever _were_ to witness an orgy or ritual sacrifice, this was probably the place it would happen.

There were other cars at the top, other parties of people, six or seven.

The park staff had dug out a depression in the middle with a fire pit at its center. Some of the groups were sitting around the fire under blankets or jackets. But most the cars still had the bulk of their respective parties milling about them.

There was a van closest to them that had several blond and brown-haired twenty-somethings. A cluster of them were sitting on fold-up lawn chairs, passing around a bottle of honey colored alcohol. A few of them were sitting crossed legged on top of their van, draping blankets over their shoulders, smoking a joint.

One car in the back was playing music. Dornish music by the sound of it, and its occupants were mostly Dornish by the look of them. A few of them were dancing, giggling and yelling jabs at once another.

The largest group (and scariest in Bran’s opinion) was the caravan off to the side. This was the only group that included men and women past thirty-somethings. And based off their appearance, their clothing, and the way they scowled at them as they got out of the jeep, that group seemed to be wildlings.

“Are those wildlings?” Bran asked Sansa, keeping his voice low as they clustered by the SUV.

“Most like. They’re in a caravan.”

“What are they doing here?”

Arya whispered over to him, “They’ve come to eat your face.”

“Fucking hell, it’s cold,” Jojen muttered, shaking his legs to stretch them out.

Sansa said, “I know. Your dad warned us but we did not listen.”

“What? I listened,” Jon said indignantly. “I brought the blankets and comforters off our bed. Did any of you bring some?”

“No,” a bunch of them answered.

Reaching into the van to get the comforter, Robb asked the group, “Shall we grab a spot by the fire?”

 

As they were laying out a space, one of the older wildlings spoke up, a red-headed, thickset man with a beard. “Fuckin’ hell, will you get a load of this one?” He raised the bottle he was drinking from at Jon’s direction, who looked up, alarmed. “He’s prettier than half my daughters.”

A skinner bloke fired back, “Varamyr’s cunt is prettier than your daughters, that’s not saying much.”

The gruffer one stared at him for a second, considering him. Then he chucked his bottle at his companion, smashing it on his shoulder. The two of them jumped up and started at each other, shoving and yelling nonsense as a few of the others in their party cheered them on.

Standing behind Bran, Rickon said under his breath, “Woah.”

Robb shook his head reproachfully as he put down the comforter for them to sit on.

A pretty ginger girl of the wildlings group, ignoring the fight going on beside her, smiled at Jon. “He is a pretty lad. I bet girls claw each other’s eyes out to get close to him.”

Jon sat down with his back to her, blushing.

Sitting next to him, Sansa asked, “How are we supposed to sleep in this cold and with this racket?”

“If you can’t beat them, I guess you have to _join themmm_ ,” Robb announced, producing a bottle of whisky from his jacket.

 

For a while they sat on their space by the fire, drinking, shivering.

Robb began to play a drinking game with the girls and Rickon while the rest of them stared up at the sky. When the pretty ginger girl called over to Jon again, he got up, saying he’d see what she wanted.

“Oh, I think you know,” Meera said quietly. Jon left, ears red.

One of the blokes in the burner enclave shouted out, “Jojen?” Jojen looked up and his face broke out in a grin.

“Stinky Peat? Who the hell let you out of the Neck?”

Jojen made his way over, exchanging familiar handshakes with a few of them.

“Oh, that lot,” Meera said, watching them. “It figures they’re here.”

 

Eventually, Meera stood up. “I’m going to go smoke a fag. Be back.” Jojen was still in the smoking circle with his mates from the Neck and Jon had apparently hit it off with the wildlings. Robb got up from where he, Sansa, and Arya had been playing, saying he was going to do a rounds of the different groups, get a sketch of who they were.

Sensing that Sansa and Arya were itching to talk, Bran got to his feet as well, leaving Rickon, not sure if he meant to go join Jojen or Meera. He certainly didn’t mean to join Jon. He ended up going towards the jeep, where Meera had popped its back open to sit in the boot with her legs dangling in the air. She smiled as he approached and sat down next to her.

“Want a fag?” He shook his head. After a minute she said, “I don’t like that lot Jojen’s with.”

Bran was surprised. He thought she liked the Neck. “Why?”

“They’re high _all_ the time. I mean, yeah, Jojen’s high now. But what else are you gonna do in this frozen pit until the sun rises? But them. They’re never sober.”

Bran gave a disinterested shrug of his shoulders.

She looked at him, tossing her cigarette on the ground. “So, how you been? How’s uni?”

“I like it.”

“Figures. Nerd.”

He laughed, despite himself. “Thanks again, for saving my book.”

“I wouldn’t have done it if I knew you were going to be so _grateful_.”

She made him smile. He liked that about her. “So. Not too many Starklings for you on this trip?”

“So many,” she chuckled. “It’s nice. It’s like back when we were kids.”

That made him think of Jyana. He hadn’t seen her in a few years now. He wanted to ask Meera about her. But he didn’t, remembering how Jojen said that was a sore subject for her.

“So, Bran,” she said, shifting up into the jeep a little. “Broken many a heart? Girls besides themselves to get with a college man?”

 _Unbelievable_. He shook his head, disapprovingly.

“How many fawning Jonquils would you say you’ve accumulated?”

“Does that make me Florian? A fool?” She lifted her foot to nudge at his. He glanced at her to the side, smiling, before he quelled it and looked at his feet shyly. “How’s Tyrek?”

Bran vaguely knew she had started dating a boy her age, Tyrek, distantly related to the rich Lannister clan.

She sighed, reaching into her back pocket for another smoke. “Oh, Tyrek.”

“What’s that mean?”

“He’s alright,” she said, words a bit muffled as she held the cigarette between her lips to light it. “Bit of an idiot.”

“An idiot??”                                                   

She shrugged. “He means well. I think. But he doesn’t do much for me.”

“Why are you dating him then?”

“My mum’s keen on him. Really keen. She and his mum are old friends.”

 _Well, since she’s brought it up…_ “I thought you didn’t get along with your mother.”

She frowned at him curiously. “I…We’re not the chummiest of pals. Not like your greeting card of a family.” He opened his mouth to protest but she went on, “But of course I love my mum.” Her legs twined together, swinging below, as she added in a soft voice, “Everybody loves their mum.”

“I didn’t mean—”

She patted his arm to mollify him. “So, what about you? Got your own Tyrek?”

“Do I have a Tyrek Lannister? No.”

She breathed out a small laugh, nudging her shoulder against his. “Don’t evade the question.”

Bran looked back to the rowdy group around the fire. “Nope.”              

She knocked some off the ash from the cigarette down. “Why not?”

“I dunno. I’ve—” He didn’t know what verb to use. He had slept with a few girls since starting university last year. Three. But talking about his love life to Meera, he didn’t want to use a word denoted only for sex. It made him sound shallow.

If you were supposed to remember losing your virginity as something special, to be cherished for the rest of your life, that wouldn’t work out very well in Bran’s favor. He had been dragged to one of the parties at the start of the year. All the incoming new students like himself had made a point of it to get wasted, trying to snuff out their insecurities in a flood of alcohol. Somehow, he and a girl had gotten to talking, probably not making a lick of sense between the two of them. They had scuttled back to her dorm, her roommate hadn’t been there, and the two of them, both virgins, had fumbled their way clumsily through sex.

He couldn’t recall it very well but remembered that it had been disappointing. He _knew_ it had been more disappointing for her. He tried his best to forget that that had ever happened. Whenever he saw her on campus now, he paled, and she would roll her eyes and speed past him.

The times with the other two girls had been better. The third girl and he had even dated for over a month. But they had been equally uninspired by each other and ended things neutrally.

Maybe he should feel worried he hadn’t managed to have an actual relationship yet. He didn’t feel that was anything was missing from his life. But if he thought of himself in comparison to everyone else, maybe he was becoming weird…

Every time he tried to stick himself into a relationship, like the proper relationships he saw on TV and the ones his classmates were taking up, it felt forced.

You were supposed to go to dinner together, to the movies, maybe do homework together if you were too snowed under to go out. (He preferred his study cramming sessions with Jojen.) You were supposed to remember things like ‘first song’ or what your anniversary was. The boy was supposed to dote on the girl with chocolates or jewelry and get mad at her for not wanting whatever he wanted in bed. And the girl was supposed to be delighted in his attention to her and play dumb, play up childishness, amuse him by blushing when she admitted to having stuffed animals or being afraid of the dark or whatever. Did everyone really enjoy that?

He liked hanging out with the mixed group of coeds he and Jojen were friends with. He liked joking around with them and laughing at whoever was currently the drunkest or most stressed out and cheerfully making a fool of themselves in front of everyone else. And he liked it those times he slept with second and third girl.

He hadn’t managed to combine the two into the mold that seemed to be expected though.

“Bran?” Meera was watching him.

“Oh.”

“You don’t need to answer if I’m being nosy.”

“No, no. It’s fine. No, it’s just, I haven’t actually felt compelled to…date anyone, you know, long term.”

“Ah,” she nodded, taking another drag. “Short term girlfriends. One night term girlfriends.”

“No, no, no.” She cocked an eyebrow at him. “You know, there was this one girl. I liked her. But she was only at our university for a month, doing an exchange from the Citadel. Sometimes I think it’s a shame Jojen hadn’t met her first. She and Jojen would have probably hit it off.”

“Oh??” Meera smiled, opened mouthed. “What do you mean?”

Out of his minor escapades, the second girl had definitely been his favorite. It was the only one that was actually a positive memory. But when they slept together it had been with the clear understanding that it was not to lead to anything. She had explained that to him. Maybe that’s why he remembered her so fondly. She had been straightforward, much braver than he was.

She was a black girl from the Summer Islands, Kojja. Like with the first girl, she and Bran had gotten to talking at a party, except this time neither of them had been sloppy drunk. When he differentiated himself from the native King’s Landing crowd, explaining he was Northern, she had called that exotic. It made him laugh, taken aback. “I wouldn’t think of us as exotic.”

“I thought you have your own gods and own holidays. Keep to your ways.”

“Well, I guess that’s true.”

He had thought maybe they were flirting until she mentioned that soon she would be headed back to Oldtown, and even that she disapproved of her friends who had gotten themselves into real relationships before a more stable time in their life.

At one point she had been dragged off and he had assumed that would be the last he saw of her. But she had found him later that night, putting her arm on his. “I just wanted to say goodbye before I go. It was nice talking to you.”

“Oh, you’re leaving already?”

“Yes, early morning tomorrow.”

“Okay. Nice talking to you too.” He had smiled.

“Unless you would like to walk me to back to my room here?”

Bran had worked himself up into a state of nervousness again by the time they got to her room, remembering the disaster of the only other time. Sensing his plight, Kojja had leaned against the room’s desk, away from him, letting him take in the new surroundings without any pressure.

“Can I ask you about the North?”

“…Sure.”

“What would a Northern boy think if a girl invited him to her room, alone?”

She didn’t rush him but he couldn’t make himself answer.

“Do you want to know what a Summer Island boy would think?”

“Okay.”

She walked him through the steps of sensing out someone’s interest, approaching them, testing their response, initiating things. By hearing them spoke aloud, regardless how obvious they might be anyways, it had given Bran the courage to get over himself and act. He supposed, now that he thought about it, she had been like Meera in that sense. It seemed the only ways Bran had actually made any progress in terms of sex was with women who had to spell things out for him.

But unlike Meera, he knew where he stood with her and what she wanted from him. She didn’t favor the pretenses that some of the other students did on where they wanted the line to be between hooking up and going out. In that way, she was like Jojen. If Jojen had any problems dating, it was because he had no patience for people who wanted to stir up melodrama.

 

“I met this girl,” Bran explained. “She was pretty open. Open about dating, about what she was thinking. I almost think it’s a shame she was only visiting, and that Jojen hadn’t met her first. They could go out and be all analytical at each other.” Meera tittered. “You know, just sit across from each other at a restaurant and logic the shit out of each other, weirding everybody else out.”

Meera sighed, smiling. “Oh, Jojen. Sometimes I worry he’s gonna show up one day in a weird, four-way marriage or something.”

“What if he does? Would that be a problem?”

Meera kicked her legs below her absentmindedly. “Oh, I dunno. I just want him to be happy.”

Bran wanted to ask her if she was happy.

She looked to him. “You don’t have to worry about this kind of stuff. You’re the youngling. It’s Robb and Jon who have to worry about you.”

“Myeh,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “They don’t worry so much as gloat.” Before Robb had left to do a survey of the other groups, he had turned to Sansa and told her she had babysitting duty. Bran wondered if they would still be in their thirties and Robb would treat them like little kids who need to be watched. He wondered if it was an older sibling thing, a mentality that would never go away. It was unnecessary by now.

No sooner had he thought that when, to a whoop of cheers, Arya started climbing onto the hood of a car. The group in the back was still dancing merrily, and on their car’s roof there already was a Dornish girl and blond southern girl shaking their hips to the music to the crowd’s delight. The Dornish girl reached down to help pull Arya up with them. Once on, Arya began to show off, punctuating the music with on the mark gestures and spinning in a circle, dangerously close to the curved edge.

Robb, who had been standing chatting with one of the calmer parties, uncrossed his arms muttering, “Okay,” as he headed over there. He grabbed Arya around her legs where he could reach her, holding her up above him as she stared around perplexed at her new predicament, and brought her back to their spot by the fire, to the boos of some of the boys in the crowd.

Bran rubbed his temple as Meera applauded quietly from where they sat away from the crowd.

“Aww. Let her dance.”

“I’m so glad my mum doesn’t know about the lot here.”

“Yeah. She would have a conniption.” Meera finished this latest cigarette and dropped it on the ground to join the other. “Do you ever big-brother worry about Rickon?”

“Rickon? He’s fifteen. He can’t get into any real trouble.”

“No?” Meera asked, nodding over to the hippie enclave. “Because he’s been lighting up with them lot.”

“ _What?_ ” Bran snapped his head to the side to scan the group. And then, gaping, he saw Rickon had sat next to Jojen in the smoking circle, sucking down on a joint. “What!” Bran started, incensed. Meera snickered. He kicked off from the jeep. “Who does he think he is—what in seven—when Robb finds out.”

Instead of marching over to extricate Rickon from the group, Bran hurried over to where Robb had joined Sansa and Arya lying under the comforter. “Robb,” he called out.

Robb stared up at him, looking a little drunk. “Where you been?”

“Robb, have you seen Rickon?”

Robb’s eyes widened. “Why?? Is he missing?”

“No.”

“Oh,” he said, lying his back against the stone barrier of the depression again. “Don’t freak me out like that.”

“He’s over there,” Bran pointed.

“Okay.”

“Okay? He’s with them hippie lot.”

“…”

“Smoking _pot_.”

“Ohh.” Robb shrugged.

“What? Aren’t you mad?”

“No, why would I be mad? It’s only weed. He’s with Jojen, isn’t he?”

Bran sputtered. “Only weed?? You don’t have anything else to say about it?”

“…Blaze it.” Robb giggled sleepily, unconcerned. So did Sansa and Arya, though Arya looked half asleep already.

“You gave me such shit for smoking pot.”

“Oh yeah, I s’pose I did.”

“ _You_ smoked pot?” Arya said, eyebrows rising.

Sansa clucked, sounding like their mother. “Of course he does. What do you think he and Jojen do all the time?”

“I had my theories.”

“Bran,” Robb said lazily, “It’s not exactly like Rickon’s in front of our parents right now and heading over to them high. And meh. With all the other debauchery going on up here, weed is probably the least harmful of them all. We’re stuck here for a few more hours and it’ll wear off by then.”

Bran grumbled, indignant. Then, realizing how cold and how tired he was, he said, “Move over.”

Robb made to move but Arya groaned. “No, sleep on my side. I’m cold. I need a body to serve as a buffer between me and the outside air.”

“Oh, great,” Bran quipped, moving to her side of the blanket.

He climbed in beside her. They only had a thin sheet underneath the freezing ground. It did a little to protect them from the cold but nothing to make the ground any less hard or bumpy. Laying underneath the comforter though did offer good protection from the mountain air, their collective heat pooling a little.

It wasn’t long before Jojen and Rickon came over. The noises of the summit in general were slowly growing softer as more people dropped off to sleep.

“Scooch in,” Jojen whispered. Bran backed as best as he could, trying to shove Arya over, but there wasn’t much room left. Rickon was left without.

“Hey,” Rickon whined, sounding exhausted. “What about me?”

Robb turned his head over to him grumpily. “Ugh. I suppose you can have my spot.”

“No,” Meera cut in, also whispering as she returned to the group. “There’s still one more blanket in the SUV. Three people can sleep in there with the seats down. It’ll be warmer in there.”

“Sweet.” Rickon made his way over.

“I’m going to go too,” Sansa said, climbing out with much effort so as to not move Robb or Arya.

“Meera, I suppose that gives you the last slot in the van,” Robb said, eyes closing.

Meera walked over to Bran and Jojen’s side. Jojen had already started dozing off. She shook him gently. “Joj.”

“Mnn.”

“Jojen, wake up. Go over to the SUV.”

“What?” he complained in his sleep.

“It’s warmer there. Go join Sansa and Rickon.”

“I’m fine, stop doting on me. _Ow!_ ” She had pinched his neck.

“Jojen, we’re here for a few more hours. I swear to all the gods, you have one fit or cough just a little, I’m throwing you in the jeep immediately and driving back into town and we’ll miss the sunrise.”

“Ughhh.” Jojen kicked up the comforter, causing Arya to hiss and growl under her breath on the other side of Bran, clutching it back over her.

Meera watched him go before sliding in next to Bran. He backed up again towards Arya.

“That was nice of you.”

“It wasn’t nice, it just is,” she murmured, turning over.

From the other side of the blanket, Robb whispered, “Shut _up_.”

The music had stopped by this point and once the music stopped, people stopped feeling free to talk in loud voices. Bran shifted his shoulders uncomfortably against the ground below him, closing his eyes to the stars above him, trying to drift off as best as possible. He hadn’t really been able to by the time he heard someone else whispering. This time it was Jon. “Hey. Hey, where’s room for me?”

“There isn’t any,” came Robb’s voice.

“ _Hey!_ ”

“Jon, we’re trying to sleep,” Arya mumbled.

“ **Hey**. _I_ ’m the one who brought the comforter.

“…And you have served this house honorably,” Robb said. “But there’s no more room.”

“ _What the hell?_ ”

“I thought you were getting along with the wildling lot?” Meera asked.

“I was. That doesn’t mean I was planning on _sleeping_ with them.”

“Why not?” Robb whispered. “That Tormund fellow seemed down.”

“That’s not funny, let me in.”

“There is _no_ room.”

“Well then, what am I supposed to do?”

“There’s a blanket in the car,” Arya offered, eyes opening reluctantly.

Jon was thinking about it when Bran piped up, “Oh you’re going to take the blanket away from Sansa, Rickon, and Jojen?”

Jon snapped, voice hushed in the quiet, “You lot are the _worst_.”

Unperturbed, Robb insisted, “That caravan looks mighty warm.”

“Ugh, to hell with you,” Jon hissed as he stormed off.

“Looove you,” Arya whispered after him.

“Sod off.”

Bran tried turning on his side. It helped his shoulders a bit although now it was his arm and hip that were digging into the ground. He closed his eyes, trying not to breathe on Meera’s neck but not exactly sure where he should direct his head.

He felt her shift in front of him. He ignored it. Then he felt it again, the faint impression of movement from below the comforter, grazing against him.

He didn’t want to say anything, let Robb or Arya know he was bothered to sleep next to Meera. He grumbled, shifting back to lie looking straight up at the stars. He heard the light, nearly inaudible suggestion of Meera chuckling.


	7. On Holiday: The Car

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb, Jon – 24. Theon – 23. Meera – 22. Sansa – 21. Arya – 20. Jojen, Bran – 19. Rickon – 15.  
> Mood: The Album Leaf – Twenty Two Fourteen; Avec – Heartbeats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/n: Totally unrelated to the contents of this chapter but in this au, birth control works on STDs as well. Not in our universe. Have safe sex.

There was a hand on his shoulder, pushing. Rocking him out of sleep. “Mmfph.”

Bran opened his eyes, squinting. A blue glow hung in the air. The dark dome of sky looked like someone was shining a light on it from below. Lapis fading lighter and lighter until the horizon where it almost radiated neon.

“Rise and shine, little B.”

Bran lifted his head. He blinked at the girl beside him before he realized he had been using Meera’s arm as a pillow. She laid more or less on her stomach, one of her arms folded behind her into which Bran had nestled, with his arm draped around her back. He swerved upwards.

He removed his arm carefully before he turned under the blanket to find Robb on his other side, already out and crouching low to stir him. He had reached over a sleeping Arya to get to Bran. Bran wondered if he had woke him up first out of a chivalry to the girls’ sleep or to let Bran detach himself from snoring on top of Meera. Either way, he appreciated it.

“Wake the girls, will you? I’m gonna see if the wildlings haven’t carried Jon off as as their new bride.”

Robb stretched and walked off after a perfunctory shake of his legs. There were faint sounds around the campsite now of people rousing. A few whispered conversations. The sounds of morning groaning or yawning.

Bran regarded Meera beside him. Her face was planted on her non-Bran-annexed-arm and she sported a particularly unruly mess of brown curls furling out behind her. He put his hand on her back, nudging her. “Meera. Meera?”

She took a deep breath before her eyes flickered open. Lazily, she turned and spotted Bran behind her. She veered back a few inches, her eyes large. They scanned up to the steadily illuminating sky until, after a second, her memory clicked on again.

She propped herself up on her elbows, looking as grumpy as Bran was betting they all felt from the little to no sleep.

He shuffled to the other side and shook Arya lightly on the shoulder as well. “Arya?”

Arya grunted. Her hand snapped back and struck Bran across the face.

“ _Ow!_ ”

She opened her eyes, narrowing them at cold mountain air. “What’s going on?”

“You just smacked me in the face.”

She yawned. “What?”

Meera snickered behind him, climbing out. She whispered, “I’m gonna go fetch the others.”

 

By the time the sky glowed cyan, all the sleepy campers had gathered at the lookout point, a quarter-sized stone wall overlooking the eastern valleys. A car had even pulled up which had evidently been lying in wait by the park facilities down below, having skived off last night upon seeing the summit’s riff-raff. A family with young children emerged out of the car. They huddled together away from the rest of them, looking cross.

Sansa, Arya, Jojen, and Rickon sat on the miniature wall, sharing the comforter among them as their group watched the orange clouds over the horizon, waiting for the sun to creep up. The other four stood behind them. Robb and Jon had given the remaining two thinner blankets to Meera and Bran. Jon didn’t want to so easily forgive them for exiling him. But, despite a valiant effort, he failed to hide the shy smile which kept spreading over his face at the thought of the wildling girl who had shared her sleeping bag with him.

“So, what’s her name, when do we meet her?” Robb asked, leaning over to peer at the caravan in front of which the wildlings were throwing jokes back and forth, quite unbothered by the cold.

“No, no! Don’t look over. Just…just leave it alone.”

“I’m only messing with you.”

“Yeah well, none of you lot are in a position to. I thought we were family and you all abandoned me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Robb said, prodding at Jon’s leg with his foot.

The two of them started trying to see which one of them could trip the other using just their foot until there was an ‘ _ooo’_ among the watchers and they looked up.

Flares of yellow light streaked across the sky at the first glimpse of the sun’s white blaze. Compared to how long they had watched the sky brighten baby blue, the sun grew large and rose up into the sky at a startlingly fast pace.

The sky and clouds burned pink and orange. Jojen twisted to look behind him, catching Bran’s eye first and then Meera’s. He exchanged with them impressed smiles at the sight. When he turned back around, Meera glanced sideways to Bran. Her skin was washed pink. His head tilted, puzzled by her expression. She lowered her gaze and directed it back towards the horizon, shielding her vision where the sun blazed too bright.

 

Jon tried to say his farewells to the wildling girl as best he could while ignoring all the eyes on his back.

Robb’s group had re-welcomed Arya into their fold and she hopped into the back of the SUV with Sansa.

As Meera’s group made their way to the jeep, Rickon went over the different things he had gleaned from the smoking circle with Jojen.

“Is it real hunger or fake hunger?”

“Well, what _is_ hunger?”

“…Being hungry.”

“If you _feel_ hungry, is that hunger not equally as real?”

“…”

“It hasn’t vanished the food you ate previously, if that’s what you’re asking.”

The two of them climbed into the back, leaving Bran to sit in the passenger seat in the front.

Both groups made a pit-stop at the park facilities below the summit where everyone changed into their lighter clothing. From their drivers’ seats, Meera and Robb exchanged a few shouted confirmations over the route. In the end, Robb gave them the thumbs up and the SUV took off towards the descending roadway.

 

It occurred to Bran that Meera was driving much faster now that the mountain range was flooded with light. Glancing down his window, he took in the blur of road flashing past and, beyond it, a birds-eye view of the valleys and trees hundreds of feet below.

He said something which sounded like ‘eugh’ as his head snapped back against the headrest.

Meera took a pause from rapping along to her choice of fem-pop music. While making sure to watch where she was going, she spared Bran a quick glance. “What’s up?”

“You’re going way too fast.”

“I’m actually going the speed limit.”

“No—there’s _no_ way that this is the speed limit on a winding road over the ridge. You need to go slower.”

Smirking, it occurred to her to ask him, “Bran, show me again your driving permit?”

“Don’t torture the boy,” Jojen said in the back.

“I’m _not_. I am the one who is chauffeuring you mardy pedestrians.”

“Slow down, slow down, slow down,” Bran murmured, shutting his eyes.

Her voice rose to tease him. “Do you want me to swe~rve?”

“Gods, no.”

Meera chuckled and Rickon shook his head, embarrassed by association. Jojen was the only one trying to placate Bran. He tutted at the others, nagging, “Mee _ra_.”

“What? Okay, okay. Bran, don’t worry. I am not going that fast. It just _looks_ that way when you look down because we’re so high up.”

“That doesn’t really help.” Bran peeked down again. “Seven save us,” he said, voice squeaking as his hands flew up to cover his eyes.

And that, Meera broke out into laughter, though she checked behind them in case they needs slow down.

“Oi, mate,” Jojen called. “Bran. Bran, look at me.” Still covering his eyes, Bran shook his head no. “I’m serious. Look at me…on your honor as a Northern bro.”

That made him laugh despite himself. Lowering his hands, Bran twisted warily towards Jojen in the back.

Jojen was sitting comfortably with his arm strewn across the top of the backseat. He shrugged his arms in an aloofness that was reassuring. “It’s not so bad right now, right?”

The only thing passing outside behind Jojen was the wall of rock that had been blasted into the structure of a road long ago. “I guess.”

“We’re almost at the base anyways. So how was sleeping by the fire?”

“…Cold.”

“And bumpy,” Meera offered.

Jojen pressed, “Did you get any sleep?”

With Jojen distracting him, Bran settled and endured the rest of the drive until the ground really did start to even out around them, first through a forest, then into open flat road stretching back towards the Fingers.

Meera did speed through the valley but, as there was no empty space through which to plummet to a fiery death, Bran could brush it off. He even let himself appreciate with the others the weightless feel of air soaring past them, sticking his hand out the window.

Meera bobbed her head to the music while sunlight made the hair that whipped around her face glow like honey. Her legs were poking out from drawstring shorts, one perched on the gas pedal while the other one hung back for the brakes. To see her, it dawned on Bran that cruising over open road appeared to unburden something within her.

Whenever she caught Bran staring at her, she played up the current line of whatever she was singing. “ _Yeah I know it’s stupid,”_ she sang, jabbing at him with her finger. _“I just gotta see it for myself_.” He squirmed back, swatting her arm away.

Meera was older than him, but she always made him feel younger. What was wrong with him then, if he wasn’t being properly young the rest of the time?

 

Rickon had started grumbling that he was hungry. When he continued to ignore Bran’s orders to knock it off, Meera relented, deciding they’d grab a bite. She had Bran tell Robb’s group.

Sansa texted back that they had almost cleared the town of Old Anchor but they were pulling off now to join them. Over the phone, Bran tried to listen to Sansa who was listening to Jon explaining directions, which Bran then tried to relay to Meera. Robb also wanted Bran pass on what everyone wanted to eat so he could get the order in while they waited.

Bran was leaning out of Rickon’s reach as Rickon tried to tap him on the shoulder. “Ask if they have milkshakes.”

Jojen added, “Ask her if they have veggie burgers.”

“Guys, shut up, I can’t hear Sansa if you’re—what? Jojen, they do but their salads are apparently better. Rickon, what did—what? Yeah—”

“Milkshakes. I’m craving a milkshake. You haven’t asked her yet.”

“Rickon wants to know if they have milkshakes…she’s checking.”

Meera peered over the steering wheel. “Bran, when did they say to take a left?”

Rickon prodded at Bran’s shoulder. “What did she say?”

“Rickon, shut—where do we take a left? The sept? Rickon, they don’t have milkshakes…Well don’t yell at me, they’re the ones interrupting.”

“I don’t see a sept.”

“What do they have besides milkshakes?”

“She says it’s near the very end of the town. Rickon, I swear to—”

 

Meera found the place, spotting the others sitting on a bench outside just as a waiter brought out the food. When they got out and Meera realized Robb had already paid for everything, she flushed, pulling out her wallet while she rambled apologies.

Robb spoke over her, pushing her cash away. “If anything, I owe you _more_ for taking care of the Starklings.”

She glanced at Bran. A smile played across her lips. “I suppose that’s true. The rascals.” The others joined in.

“The young pups.”

“The wild wolves.”

 “The whippiest of snappers.”

“ _Okay_ ,” Bran grumbled.

 

 

The Stark and Reed kids finally made it back to their rented cabin in the headlands. Much to their parents’ chagrin, they passed day drowsily unfocused. That night the house fell oddly quiet as all of them ran out of steam soon after dinner.

The following night, however, was quite the opposite. By the time Eddard, Catelyn, and Howland had retired upstairs, all of the kids were chatting away in the sunroom, save for Meera who had skived off to take a phone call. The lot of them had bounced back having slept for a longer period than usual. In the parlor overlooking the coast, the group was feeling chipper and cooling off from the day’s excursions with cold beers or ice water.

Bran slouched in a chair next to his brothers. He propped his head on his hand as he gazed through the glass at the ocean horizon where waves lapped inland reflecting moonlight. Robb, Jon, Arya, and Rickon had steered the conversation to sports, which held little interest for him. Sansa and Jojen had already removed themselves and settled on the opposite couch. Sansa was listening as Jojen ran the idea for his thesis past her.

Bran managed to revert his attention back to the room. He didn’t particularly feel like listening to either conversation. He might as well get in the alone time he needed now.

He stood up and put his hand on Robb’s shoulder, telling him in an undertone, “I’m going out for a stroll before bed. See you in the morning.” Robb checked Bran’s face to make sure nothing was wrong and gave him a nod.

Instead of going down to the gardens, Bran headed up the hill to amble alongside the cliffside. A draft blowing in from the sea ruffled his short hair.

He drifted away from the cabin and its out of place glow in the dark headlands. The surrounding air was black and warm and he mused about how it had been the very opposite on top of Mount Ironoaks, pink and freezing. He recalled the bumpy, _unbelievably_ cold ground. And Meera nudging him with her shoe in the boot of the jeep. “ _He means well. I think. But he doesn’t do much for me._ ”

Bran supposed that his clumsy flings hadn’t done much for him. That’s why they were flings though.

He shook his head, hands in his pockets. There was no point to try to figure out what was ever going on with Meera. Or why he couldn’t seem to shake this little crush of his. It had been years already.

All of a sudden he hopped back. He could have sworn he felt something tap his leg. He skimmed his hand over his jeans, checking for something like a small animal or (gods forbid) a snake.

Whatever it was struck his hand next. He sprang up, scanning around, squinting in the direction it came from. And then…“ _You_.”

Meera was sitting in the dark on her crossed legs, a small ways away from him. She was still collecting pebbles for her arsenal, trying not to laugh and give herself away.

He folded his arms, waiting as she aimed again. She chucked the pebble but missed this time. Unimpressed, he said, “And what exactly are you doing?”

“Nettling you.”

“And _why_?”

“Because you’re easily nettled.” She gave up and leaned back on her arms, flashing him a cheeky smile as he approached. He wanted to be annoyed but it was difficult, seeing as she was so clearly _brimming_ with glee at the chance to mess with him.

He sighed as his legs folded on a spot close to her. They sat beside each other, facing the water.

Deciding he didn’t want to deal with her self-satisfaction and her sass grin, Bran he reclined onto his back, cushioning his head with his arms folded above him. Meera waited a moment and then joined him on the grass. Above them were the clouds and stars and, even from all the way up here, they could still hear the spray of the waves breaking up over the rock face below.

Meera twiddled her thumbs over her stomach. He could sense her gathering up words to say something. She inhaled, but then said nothing.

“What?” he prompted.

“…Jojen doesn’t do anything stronger than pot, does he?”

He shot her a side glance. “Why are you asking me?”

“Of course I’d ask you. Who else?”

“I’m not going to spy on Jojen for you.”

She huffed. “I’m not asking you to _spy_. I’m just wondering.” Bran shook his head ambiguously against the grass. “Is that a yes?”

“Nope.”

“Hmpfh.”

“Why? Are you worried about him?”

“No. Not really. I mean, I’m always _somewhat_ worried about him.”

“Why?”

“Because…” She wrung her hands under her chest. “He’s…unique. And special, and cool, and sweet. _And_ he’s the best person, the world doesn’t even know how grateful it should be.” Bran smiled next to her in the dark. “And it’s my job to look out for him. Our parents,” she waved a hand above her, wafting the thought of them away, “…It’s not that they’re clueless. They’re just distracted. Those kids from the Neck he was hanging out with on the mountain—I know they’re all burnouts. And he lights up all the time.”

“He doesn’t. No—really. He doesn’t smoke all the time. The other night was the first time he’s smoked pot for something like two weeks now. And, honestly, who wouldn’t—stuck up there for a couple of hours, freezing your ass off under the stars. Even Rickon smoked. Robb didn’t even get angry when I told him.”

“Yeah well, Robb was pretty drunk.”

“But you get my point. Even I think it was pretty harmless up there. Jojen’s good. Really.” Bran stretched, yawning. “I envy him. I wish I could be…at ease, like he is. He’s doing better than most of the kids in our year.”

“What’dya mean?”

“Eh. Everybody’s always stressed out. They’re trying so hard to present themselves the way they think they’re supposed to be seen. Jojen just,” Bran slapped his hands together, demonstrating one arm surpassing the other, “breezes right past them.”

Meera was quiet for a minute. He looked to the sky, acting like he couldn’t feel her eyes on him.

“Better than most of the kids, you say?”

“Yeah well,” he shrugged. “Besides those pricks who get all top levels _and_ are athletic _and_ good looking _and_ still have active, well-meaning social lives…You know, the ‘Robb’ type.”

She laughed. “Do you get jealous of your brothers?”

Bran shifted his shoulders on the tough soil. “Meh.”

“Aww.”

He grumbled, “Don’t ‘aww’ me.” His chest was feeling tight. Inwardly, he kicked himself for the childish spike in nerves that her presence triggered. Why did this bloody crush have to make him so on edge?

“You know what really makes me ‘aww’ at you?” she mused, turning on her side. She supported her head with an arm to gaze at him still more directly. “I was thinking about this yesterday. I thought, ‘Poor Bran. He was in quite the predicament. Trying to have his first spoon with Meera Reed _while_ spooning with his sister and brother.’”

“Blech.” Bran shuddered as she chuckled to herself. “You’re gross. And wrong. And _I didn’t try to have a spoon with you_.”

“Oh?” She shifted onto her stomach, now having rolled next to him. Her legs twiddled lazily behind her.

He moved his arms out from under his head, careful not to bump her, propping himself up with his forearms.

“Seeing the stars, underneath that comforter…it kind of reminded me of that time we went stargazing at camp.” _The time you came onto me? My first kiss? That time?_ She had been almost a year younger than he was now. “Except that time, Arya and Robb weren’t lying beside us.”

He shook his head just to make it harder for her to see his face, in case he looked flustered.

Meera stifled another laugh. Bran almost didn’t want to know. “What’s up with you now?”

“You know, sometimes I think…” she shot a nervous glance back at the cabin, “what would happen to me…if Catelyn Stark knew I had sullied her baby boy?”

“Shut _up_ , Meera.”

“You’re blushing.” She made to poke his cheek but he buffeted her away, pegging her hand to the ground. He reeled his arm back and her eyes followed him.

 _She just finds this all entertaining, doesn’t she?_ “What are you—”

“Has it occurred to you that Arya and Robb aren’t beside us now?” Try though he might, he didn’t manage to wrench his eyes away from her. Meera tried to mask the smirk that bloomed across her lips by biting down.

Wasn’t she dating someone? She was just riling him up for no reason now. He tried to find the air in his lungs to tell her to cut it out.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she said in a soft voice. “I love Robb, but...” Her eyes flit from his lips up to his eyes. “That was pretty devastating. When he interrupted us.”

“In-interrupted? I figured we had pretty much reached as far as we were going to go.”

She made a quick clicking noise with her tongue, raising her eyebrows at him skeptically. “Is that so? Were you planning on stopping?”

He admitted in a faint whisper, “No.” Utterly disoriented, Bran scanned her face. “Weren’t…weren’t you planning to?”

“I hadn’t really _planned_ anything. And then Robb had to come and steal you away.”

Despite how tense he’d become, he still smiled at that memory. “You know, he thought I was high.”

Meera’s eyes grew wide and she let out a breathless laugh. “He what?”

“Since I was acting weird.”

Meera sat up. Her grin was too knowing and too pleased. “That must have been tough for you.”

“I’m sure that’s what you were after.”

“What? For you to be all…hot and bothered?” He bowed his head. Why did she get such a kick out of embarrassing him? “Did you think I wasn’t hot and bothered?” When he looked up, he swallowed. “You know what was really unfair though? What really…rubs me raw about that afternoon?” She drew out the words like she enjoyed the sound of the innuendo. There was a lull in which Bran stared, open mouthed, as his heartbeat sped up. She planted an arm on the other side of him. “ _You_ got to feel me.” She used the leverage to slink over his legs leaned backwards with a sharp inhale.

“What are you—but—”

He tried not to actually shut his eyes at the twinge in his cock as she settled over his lap. He had been half-hard, being subjected to her incessant flirting, but now he flushed, achingly stiff. His eyes glazed over as he tried not to look at her. But Meera’s hand swept lightly under his jaw and signaled for him to follow. He did, automatically, and brought his face close under hers.

Her lips ghosted over his. “You felt me. But I didn’t really get to feel you. Is that fair?”

He meant to say, ‘wait,’ but her hand rubbed down over his cock and all that came out from him was a desperate, “whai—” She thrummed, feeling him through the denim as her mouth covered his. He opened it to her and she explored him with her tongue.

She tasted like Meera. And like the berries up for grabs on the cabin’s kitchen counter. What a sweet mouth she had and it had been so long since he had been granted a fleeting taste of it. With the press of his hand on her back, he bound her closer to him.

It seemed each time he made to push his question, she blocked him with her mouth back on his. Or maybe it was he who was interrupting himself, tugging her back to him whenever she drew away for breath. He was pretty sure he meant to ask her something. But at the pressure of her weight on top of him, he was so hard, it blocked out most any other thought.

She gripped his neck, her hold on him growing rough. She pulled back for air before turning her head down to see what she was doing, fingers snapping open the buckle of his belt and snatching at the zipper.

His legs jumped, sending her forward. He remembered the question now. “Wait, stop.”

She looked up, breathing nosily, hands still gripped onto the unzipped top of his trousers.

“What about…about…Whatshisname?”

“…Tyrek?”

“Yeah,” he panted, out of breath.

“Oh,” she waved it off with a flick of her wrist. “Don’t worry about him.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s not that kind of relationship.”

“What?”

“Bran.” She blinked slowly with the air of suppressed impatience. “I know what I’m doing. There’s no problem on my end, or his end for that matter. But if you—”

Bran cut her off with his mouth on hers. He was kissing her quickly, still a bit unaware to what was happening around them or between them. But now that he had started, his mouth, his hands acted as if by reflex. Her hands roamed over his chest and his arms, grasping at random. He moaned into her mouth, drew back to go after her throat, kissing and nipping at her skin.

She shoved him back onto the grass. She shifted, keeping her face out of his reach. Her hand nudged past his waistband, fingers traipsing over the cotton beneath it and his breath caught when she squeezed him through the fabric.

She withdrew her hand to slide under the cotton and his eyes pinched shut. He suppressed an angry hum when her fingers glossed over the head of his cock. She tried to help him with a soothing, ‘shh,’ as her fingers wrapped around him and began to slowly jerk him.

He murmured nonsense under his breath, his head lolling back. He didn’t know how or why this was happening, but any resistance was over for him now, searing from the impossible need coursing through his veins and skin.

She withdrew her hand again to pry at his jeans to better open them.

He looked up at her. Her lips a little swollen, eyes focused on their intent.

With a quick grunt, he boosted them up, flipped them over. When he landed on top of her, her legs gave, moving to either side of him. The sheer position knocked the breath from him. It took him a moment to move again. When he lifted his face to see her, she beamed at him, serene. His eyes darted over her. _She really wants this? Does she?_ He lowered his face, his nose skimming across her cheek before he parted his lips as she matched him and he let his tongue try her, tasting her.

She arched up into him. Both of them groaned. Her hand pulled up on the back of his shirt, he was trying to cradle her neck so she would align with him but she kept moving, lurching back and then catching him again.

He was still kissing her as he felt her hand sneaking under his waistband again. Blindly, he found her hand to scoop it off him, bringing it back up to her stomach. She drew off to sigh, “What? What is it?”

“I mean…we’re…we’re not doing it—we’re not doing this _here_ , are we?”

She glanced around them in the weedy grass, the precipice of the cliffs not too far. “Hmm. Maybe not _here_.” She stood up, offer him her hand. “Do you trust me?”

“No.” He said it emphatically, without hesitation. That made her smile. It made him smile too.

“Are you coming with me?”

He put his hand in hers, pulling himself up.

Quietly, she led them back the way he came. He trailed behind her after doing up his zipper, watching her curiously. Certainly she didn’t think to continue this in the house.

As they got closer, Bran studied the cabin, trying to detect any light or movement. He could tell a light was on the side of the house facing away from them, but all the windows they could see were dark.

She planted herself a few hundred feet from the porch. He followed her gaze. “…My parents’ van?”

“It’s unlocked, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

She let go of his hand, tiptoed over to the SUV, the hulking black mass in the dim moonlight, and opened up the backseat door. “I presume you’re not expecting anyone in here?” She climbed in, scooching to the far window and looking back to where he stood, speechless.

When he didn’t move, she patted the space next to her like a cartoon.

After a nervous side-glance at the house, Bran’s feet carried him across the yard. He pulled himself up and into the van, shutting the door.

 

He sat by one door and Meera—the other. She didn’t move. In the cramped space, she kept her hands over her knees which were pressed together. The inside of the car was dark. He could make out a glimmer in her eyes though.

He turned consciously in his seat, watching her awkwardly as he reached behind the headrest to find a lever there. With a shove, he brought the back of the passenger row down against the row behind it. Meera almost squawked as she tipped backwards with the seat. Her hands flew up to her mouth to cover a giggle.

“You’re just having the time of your life, aren’t you?” he said grumpily as drew near. He maintained himself aloft, poised above her with an arm braced against the seat. He had to angle his legs just right to fit in the legroom.

She flashed him a hopeful smile. “Not yet.”

He didn’t go for the bait. He let himself take in the sight of her, her eyes fixed on him, her chest rising and falling in quick little breaths. A dumb smile spread across his face.

She pressed her lips together, stubbornly trying to appear neutral, challenging him. He still didn’t take the bait, unbothered. He raised an eyebrow at her.

“Tsk, you are the _worst_.” Her hand shot up and she tugged his shirt, collapsing him onto her. He stifled a laugh as his lips pressed against hers and closed his eyes. Her mouth opened and upon feeling her beneath him, tongue licking into him, his laugh turned into a groan.

Her fingers let go of his shirt, smoothing over his chest. He pulled off her to fumble at the drawstrings of her shorts, pulling them apart as she watched. With a quick glance to her, he dug his fingers under the hem of the shorts and lacey cotton underneath. She hoisted her hips up from the seat so he could slip them down her legs until she wriggled out of them.

The shadows of moonlight that made it into the car illuminated her pale thighs. The stretch of skin that traveled up to her hips looked smooth. His hand brushed over it and he gulped. It was smooth. She shimmied higher onto the seat, shy to his gaze. His eyes traveled from the whiff of hair she was trying to hide between her thighs up to her face, her cheeks reddening.

He stooped to kiss her, earnestly, caressing the side of her waist with an wavering hand. Her head tipped back and he trailed down her neck, testing her skin with his lips, tongue, teeth. While he sucked a spot on her throat, his hand slithered down, parted her legs, and he slid a finger over her folds to find her slick. He skimmed over her clit, deliberately without much attention, just to _nettle_ her. He sank a finger into her warmth and both of them groaned.

The silence of the hull of the car accentuated their every breath, mouths open. She cupped a hand over where he tented his trousers. She mumbled, “I want to feel you.” Her fingers agitatedly undid his zipper once more; she was muttering in annoyance that he had done it back up in the first place. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out his wallet. Holding it in hand, he nudged out the wrapper from the pouch, dropping the wallet once he got it. She worked down the top of his trousers, yanking his briefs forward first so they wouldn’t snag on him. He bit off the perforated edge of the condom wrapper so he’d be able to extract one-handed.

 

Bran vaguely knew that Meera was on birth control. Years ago, staying over at Jojen’s, he overheard snippets of the row her parents had had when Jyana decided Meera would go on birth control at 14 as a preventative measure.

Still, Bran figured this warranted using a condom. It was something of a formality for the first time two people had sex. Of course, it wasn’t exactly like he was still getting to know Meera. But there was also the fact that she was partially somebody else’s girlfriend, whatever she had meant by that cryptic comment. He didn’t want to think about that right now. He’d last longer with a condom. Even if he hadn’t had that problem since the very first time, if the already dizzying ache in his cock was anything to go by, it couldn’t hurt to be safe.

 

He shirked free of his trousers and briefs that had fallen by his feet. Leaning back over her, he rolled the condom down the head of his cock to the base.

Now he froze. He glimpsed at her, heart hammering in his chest. She was looking back—maybe scared, more excited. Seeing him freeze up, her expression softened. She leaned up and smoothed back some of the hair fallen over his forehead. Her hand fell to his jaw, beckoning him forward. He dipped his head for her. Her lips settled on his, her touch light, a brush. When she drew back, Bran gazed wide-eyed at her, unnerved.

He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had been so gentle with him.

She rested her back down on the seat again. She held his gaze as her hand ran down his length. He tried to suppress a groan, eyes flickering, when she aligned him against her.

They shared one last look, eyes darting across each other’s faces.

He pressed forward. Her warm pressure enveloped him. Meera’s eyes shut as her breath caught. While he pushed into her, her arm up slid behind her to grab the headrest. He was quiet until he had sheathed all the way into her, when he then let out a choked breath, head falling forward. _Oh god._

 _Meera_.

He needed a second to collect himself. When he opened his eyes, he saw her, face screwed up, panting, gripping onto the back of the seat.

He thrust again, eliciting her to a gasp. He straightened up best he could in the space and began to pump into her. Each breath of hers was noisy. He grunted, one of his arms grabbing her thigh. Her eyes blinked open, heavy lidded. It was weird, he thought, to see Meera looking _un_ playful. He pounded forward harder, watching her teeth grit down. She exhaled in a hum as she turned her face to the side.

Seized by a sudden urge, compelled by the ache in the way she hummed, he gripped at her thigh roughly, snaking his arm around her leg and stretching it back until he could hitch it over his shoulder. She gasped, and then moaned as he started to snap his hips, driving into her. He closed his eyes in concentration. She mouthed out curses silently.

He emitted a groan from deep within his throat. Loud, too loud. He needed to regain control. They had to be quiet. If they weren’t careful, they could still be heard by the cabin.

He paused. He turned his head towards the leg slung over his shoulder, dragging his cheek across her calf. On instinct, he planted a grateful little kiss on the skin under her knee before guiding her leg back down.

He lowered himself over her, bracing his arms against the seat.

When he caught a glimpse of her face, he saw her startled eyes had locked onto his, watching him. He faltered. _Did I do something wrong?_

With some effort she boosted up on her elbows, rising closer to him in their small space. When she bowed her head forward, her face just reached him. Eyes fluttering shut, he leaned his brow against hers. They breathed in sync together. He tried to catch her mouth again to kiss her but she evaded him, inhaling unevenly. He dipped lower to chase after her and his cock sunk in further. Her mouth opened under his as she groaned and so he took her there too, smiling a little at the noise she made until he broke and moaned himself. He tore back to duck his head beside her, burying his face in her hair.

He felt the slight bounce of her shoulders, her chest beneath him, propelled forward by his rhythm. His hand rose up and tapped down on the seat helplessly before it meshed itself in her curls. She wrapped her arm around his neck, pulling him in tighter.

Her breath floated over the back of his neck as she whispered, “Please, don’t stop…please, please.”

That wasn’t helping anything. He felt himself tightening. If she said things like that, he wasn’t going to last. He pushed up from the seat again, her arm still held onto him, so he could snap his hips faster.

Her hand moved to instinctively push back at his chest, his hips. She arched into the surge. As she lifted herself, they slid into a deeper angle. Bran held her there as she whined until he had to stop again, almost toppling over the edge.

He descended on top of her once more and thrust in from that angle—not good for speed, but he could feel all of her beneath him, her chest heaving, her hips canting up. Her hand dug into his shoulders.

He grunted under his breath, “ _Fuck_.”

She began to murmur his name into his ear. Over and over again. He didn’t want her to stop, still not fully believing it could be his name she whispered.

She said, voice heavy and hushed, “I’ve wanted this.” His eyes rolled shut. He could feel himself getting ready to burst. _Not yet, not yet._ “I wanted to feel you.” And then, voice nearly inaudible and hitching with his strokes, “And it’s so good, you feel so good.”

He whimpered, still driving into her.

“Have you wanted me?”

For once, he had no qualms about answering honestly. He rasped out, “Yes,” into the crook of her neck.

Her breathing spiked, rising in volume.

“ _Meera_.”

“Oh god, oh, _god_.”

“Shh.”

“Just do it. Please. Gods, please.”

He shifted his weight onto an elbows. As his cock dragged in and out of her, his other hand rushed down. He searched and found her clit again, sweeping his fingers up and down, up and down.

“Yes, oh yes, oh yes. Please..”

He groaned, head lolling forward. This was unbearable. He was coming apart. He felt something coiling. She whined, gripping painfully onto him, her eyes shut. She started to gasp, growing louder and louder.

“Shh, shh.” She didn’t shush. His shushes intermingled with her gasps which grew deafening. But even as he half-worried about the noise, a smile broke out over his face while he shushed her, relieved he had made it this long. It felt like she pulled him in, tighter, before her breath released.

He moved his hand to her waist. Holding her against him, he pummeled her faster. She moaned softly, exhausted. He groaned. Pumped into her once, twice more. He stilled, buried in her, and then he could feel himself pulsing into the condom. He shuddered, the groan fading into a choked whimper when the very last of him spilled out and he collapsed on top of her, vaguely feeling her hand curling upwards along his back.

Bran breathed in, out. He didn’t notice or think anything for a few seconds. System rebooting. Then he became aware of Meera’s hand stroking the back of his head. He realized he had concealed his face in her hair.

Sudden panic set it at the realization that it was Meera— _Meera_ —stroking the back of his head soothingly. The Meera who was a family friend, the sister of his best friend. Meera who knew each of his siblings and parents just as well as he knew her family. Meera, whom he would probably know for the rest of his life. He was trembling in the wake of having come while inside her. And so now it felt like she was also: Meera, with whom he had heedlessly just shared a glimpse of his soul.

He lifted up a little so he could see her face.

Her eyes shined, over-wet, while they searched him.

They were both still out of breath.

She touched the side of his jaw with a finger as she asked, “Are you okay?”

He nodded slowly. “Are you?”

She reciprocated and gave him a smile, although her lips quivered.

He could still feel her surround him. He lay his head down beside her again. He just wanted a moment. One more moment. Her voice whispered, “I kind of don’t want you to leave.” Hidden in her hair, he smiled to know she had been thinking along the same lines. She sighed. “ _But_ it would lead to some awkward reactions back in the house.”

 _She is incorrigible_.

He rose again, narrowing his eyes at her as she kept her mouth shut, looking utterly delighted with herself.

As quiet as possible, Bran said, “You are the worst.”

She laughed lightly. “Don’t copy my lines. Make your own.”

Watching her giggle at her own stupid joke, his vision swam a little. He paid that detail no mind—such a thing was common after sex.

He said in a hushed voice as he leaned down to kiss her cheek, “You are gorgeous.” As he leaned towards the other cheek, he said, “You are precious.” And then he muttered, “And you are awful, you are the worst,” before he parted her lips with his. If their tryst would end when he pulled out and they would revert to being platonic pals, this was his last chance to kiss her. He kissed her, fully, taking his time, and she was happy to receive him, inviting him to indulge. Her arms tugged at him, wrapping him in a farewell embrace.

He stopped only with great reluctance. He blew out a stream of air before bracing himself on the seat.

“Wait, wait.”

“What?”

“Just, um, do you have a tissue? You used a condom so if you don’t, it’ll still be fine. But just in case you have one…it’s a little more comfortable that way.”

He wondered if the seat would be damp. Of course it would be. _Seven hells_. They hadn’t used a towel. There weren’t any; they were in _his parents’ van_.

“Beneath that seat,” he said, indicating the front passenger’s seat in front of her. “There might be some there.” That was his mother’s seat and she liked to be prepared.

Meera’s arm went fishing under it and came back up with a packet of tissues.

He pushed himself off her, sliding out, his skin feeling a little tender. He sat back on the passenger row, beside her as she wiped herself. _Do I take the condom off here or outside?_ He didn’t want to step out of the van like this. He tried his best to keep his back to her as he worked it off, tying off the top of it carefully. She looked away, sensing his embarrassment.

 

When they emerged from the van having righted their clothes and lifting the seat back, he looked up at the house. The light on the other side of the house had gone out. All was dark.

Meera sighed. “I want a smoke.”

“That good, huh?”

She grinned to see him playing with her, confident. “Five stars,” she said begrudgingly. “I’ll be leaving my review in the morning. The accommodations could have been a little better, I’ll grant you. But the service more than well made up for it.”

He ducked his head at the innuendo.

“Do you want to sit with me?”

He nodded, a little dumb still in a stupor. Meera crossed to the jeep, opened the passenger door and started rooting around. Bran put the condom, now back in the wrapper, on the ground for the moment. He’d get it when they went back inside.

Meera sauntered back to him, a small box in her hand. He noticed that it wasn’t the brand she had on the mountain. Those must have been her own.

“Where do you wanna sit? We’re probably too close to the house here.” They looked around. Bran didn’t particularly want to go back to the cliffs. “What about down there?” She pointed down a short hill off to the side, on the route to the gardens but closer.

As they made their way down Bran said quietly, “Are those your dad’s? I didn’t know he smoked.”

“He doesn’t,” she frowned. “It was my mum who started putting these in the glove compartment. Jojen and I just keep up the habit I guess because we used her stash sometimes.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“No, no. It’s fine.”

They stopped at the bottom of the hill. Bran sat down on the grass, hugging his knees. Meera sat with her legs crossed beside him. She put a cigarette in between her lips and lit it with a match. She drew in a deep breath, exhaling away from him.

She slowly leaned to the side, resting her head against his shoulders. It made Bran smile to himself.

“So, Bran. Do you take all your women out to the romantic countryside to seduce them?”

He puffed. “I don’t think I’m the seducing type.”

“Oh? Are you the mark? The rube?”

“ _I_ am the victim of older ladies out to take advantage of my trusting nature.” She chuckled to herself as she took another drag on the cigarette.

“Score for us cougars.”

 _Smoking would be the least of my mother’s concerns about me right now_. “Do you mind if I have some of that?” Her hand moved to his and he removed the cigarette from between two of her fingers. He had smoked a few times with Jojen, both varieties, but it was never really his thing. But right now it was a nice cap to this moment with her.

After a bit of silence, she said, “I’m glad Jojen has you as a friend. Not everyone gets Jojen. And that’s a shame.” 

“I meant it before. You really don't have to worry about Jojen. He’s got it better than most people.” He passed the cigarette back. He gazed up to the night sky before continuing, “He knows who he is.” He felt Meera staring at him but he kept his eyes trained upwards, unhurriedly studying the splashes of indigo and navy.  “Look at the sky. The stars are so bright here. I couldn’t even really appreciate it on the mountain, it was so bloody cold.” Meera glanced up. “Just like the fireflies.” 

“...You are something,” she said quietly. 

He laughed. “What’s that supposed to mean?” But as he turned back to her he thought he caught a glimpse of something different than the usual Meera. She looked glum.

“Hey—”

“You should go back inside. We should go in separately.”

She was telling him to drop it.

He blinked at her. “Listen, I…I don’t know anything about your relationship with Tyrek, but as for you and me—”

“Can we talk about this some other time?” Meera asked, rubbing her temple. “It’s late.”

She wasn’t looking at him, she kept her eyes on the grass.  “…Okay.”

She took another drag on the cigarette before putting it out next to her.

He braced himself on the ground to stand up. He said softly, “Goodnight.”

She glanced at him. She looked sorry. He wondered if she regretted sleeping with him, or if she just regretted her tone right now.

_Does she wish I was Tyrek?_

“G’night.”

On his way back, he nabbed the condom wrapper, thinking he better hide it in something else, like a packet of crisps, before throwing it in the trash.

When Bran got to the door of the cabin, he peered back down the hill. Her silhouette was visible in the moonlight, sitting in the grass with her back to him, looking up at the stars.


	8. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb, Jon – 24. Theon – 23. Meera, Gendry – 22. Sansa – 21. Arya – 20. Bran, Jojen – 19. Rickon – 15.  
> Mood: Death in Vegas – Girls; Zayn Malik – I Won’t Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope to go back and edit eventually. But with ADHD (and prob just in general), if you don’t go forward with rough work, you’ll end up sitting on 5 billion unfinished projects.

** The next day **

Bran awoke to the unfamiliar sight of the loft’s ceiling. It took him a second to remember he was at the Fingers, on holiday with his family. And the Reeds.

Rickon’s low snores drifted over from across of the room. In the middle was Jojen’s bed, which currently lay empty and tidy. He must have quietly made it before heading downstairs. Bran had taken the furthest bed, underneath their window. He rubbed his eyes before sitting up.

Out beyond the window stretched the expanse of grassy headlands. From the way the sun hit the trees, Bran figured it was around mid-morning.

Last night he had crept past Rickon and Jojen, both asleep, to crawl into bed. He had strained to curb the heavy breathing from having just climbed the stairs. As soon as he laid flat, he remembered that he couldn’t well sleep in his jeans and had to rustle himself out again to change in silence by the foot of the bed.

He made a point of it to set aside time to go over what had just happened before falling asleep.

Had it just happened, with her? And why?

Would it be like before, when around the others she pretended nothing whatsoever had taken place? Refusing to look at him. Or what was worse was when she did look at him, with a straight face. But he knew. And she knew. And feigning ignorance couldn’t change that.

                                          

Fully awake now, Bran tossed back the blanket and stood up. He supposed he had to go downstairs, eat with the others if they were still eating. They’d all be untroubled, likely gearing up for whatever excursion someone fancied next.

He must have been hovering in the middle of the room for too long, as Rickon began to stir. Bran snapped out of it and hastened to change, slipping out before Rickon would wake in earnest.

 

A short while later, Bran left the upstairs bathroom from a rushed shower, hair wet and shirt sticking a little where he hadn’t quite dried yet. It was time to join the fray. He didn’t hear any voices as he proceeded down the stairs but could hear the faint rustle of movement and dishware.

He wasn’t sure who he wanted it to be down there. Which batch would be the best, would be the least interested or perceptive? He sort of hoped Meera wouldn’t be there. He hadn’t woken up enough to jump straight into the pretending game so soon.

 

When he made it to the first floor and padded over to the kitchen, he was greeted by the remaining morning stragglers, Jojen, Sansa, and Catelyn. Sansa didn’t look up but chimed in with a dulcet, “Mor-ning.”

He echoed them, hesitating on the first row of kitchen tiles.

Catelyn came over to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Nice to see you up. You and Rickon are the last to wake.” She held a mug of tea in one hand. The other began to fix his hair. “The others went on a hike to the tallest point of the ridge before it gets too hot. They should be back in an hour or so.”

“Okay.” _Of course they would._

Jojen and Sansa had finished nibbling at the crumbs left on their plates. They were occupying themselves by absentmindedly trying pieces of the puzzle scattered on the table.

Catelyn took a sip from her mug, studying him. “You missed the sunrise.” Her eyes roamed upward to the ceiling, as if looking through the floors. “Do you know if Rickon’s getting up soon? It’d be a shame for him to miss the holiday sleeping.” _Wouldn’t want to waste a vacation getting rest._

“Mum, it’s barely 10:00.”

“ _Some_ of us, Bran, have been up for over four hours already.”

“Yes, well some of us are crazy,” he muttered. She pinched at his ear, sending him off to the counter to collect what food was left. “Anyways, he was waking up when I left.”

Seemingly to herself, she sighed, “My boys.” His mom always had seemed to grieve for her babes who were growing up only so they could slip away.

Bran didn’t think they were slipping away. How many families regularly traveled together, ate together? Returned home on the weekends to be under the same roof together again?

At least he wasn’t the youngest. He figured that, though his mom did her best to restrain herself, Rickon would get the full blast of last-minute panic when it sunk in that she’ll never watch another one of their recitals or games.

_“What would Catelyn Stark do if she knew how I defiled her boy?”_

He scuttled over to the counter, taking in what options of food remained. Deciding on oatmeal, he scanned about for its ladle when he caught sight of the kitchen window ahead. The SUV was sitting on the grass straight in front of him, beyond the window. _Was it really that close? That’s not so close actually. Well, it is a little, it’s a little close._

Realized his arm had frozen mid-air, he snatched the ladle up and made a bowl. He sat down next to Jojen, looking at no one.

“You sleep alright?” Jojen asked.

“Mhmm.”

After a few more bites, they heard Rickon blustering down the stairs _._ He came peeling into the kitchen only to stop in his tracks when he spotted he was the last to wake. Rickon had inherited their father’s honey brown hair, which at the moment looked not its best as it seemed he had simply snapped his head off the pillow before running down here and now was wishing he’d reconsidered. It was too late for that, though, as Catelyn had already locked on target, tutting as she went to find a comb.

Bran took the opportunity to wolf down the rest of his bowl and break away into the front room.

Their wolf-dog Lady perked her head up from where she was lounging on the floor. Evidently when the hiking group set out with the rest of the dogs, Lady preferred to hang back with Sansa. Bran approached to scratch her ears, and she returned the favor by licking at his fingers. “Come on, girl,” he said, leading her outside with him so they could sit in the sun.

It was there Jojen joined him a few minutes later. Bran sat on the grass, his back to where the cars were parked. Lady rested beside him enjoying herself a thorough petting.

“Hey man.”

“Hey.”

Jojen wandered over and knelt down. Lady stretched to give him an obligatory sniff before plopping her head down again.

“Your mother’s drowning Rickon in orange juice. Says it’s good for ‘growing boys.’”

“Oh god.”

“Yep,” Jojen chuckled under his breath. He scratched Lady’s fur for her too. “Where’d you go last night? I thought everybody went to sleep but I didn’t see you.”

“Yeah,” Bran started, voice a little higher than maybe it should have been. He hadn’t begun to piece out what or if he was going to tell Jojen. He had probably been awake for something only around two hours since it happened. All he knew was that he wasn’t discussing anything with anyone right now. He cleared his throat. “I fancied a bit of time to myself. You know, it’s just so much time with everyone.”

Jojen nodded slowly, petting Lady. “You should be glad you’re not Rickon, way your mum is.”

“I know, I know.”

 

That evening, to wind down the day, the group had gravitated towards sitting outside on the porch, enjoying the breeze while they chatted.

Bran hadn’t joined them yet. He was staring at himself in the mirror of the cramped half-bath.

His hand smoothed over the peach fuzz sprouting along his jaw after two days’ neglect. Nowadays, Robb and Jon walked around with full beards neatly trimmed. His didn’t grow like that. How old had Robb been when he had truly needed to shave?

The day had passed alright. As he expected, Meera acted blissfully unaware that anything was out of the ordinary. It almost felt sometimes like he forgot too.

Bran exited, closing the door carefully behind him. As he headed to the front door to join everyone else out on the porch, Jon strolled out the kitchen and stopped upon seeing him. “Bran. Quick word?”

“Uh…” Bran’s eyes flashed towards the open doorway where Jojen, sitting next to Meera, caught sight of him and waved him over. “Sure.”

Howland came out of the kitchen behind Jon, shaking his hands dry after washing them. He smiled politely as he scooched past them out the door.

“Up here.” Jon turned to make his way up to the second floor.

Outside, Robb vacated one of the chairs so that Howland might take it instead. Bran held up a finger to signal to Jojen his delay before following after Jon.

 

“What’s up?” Bran asked as they walked into the room Jon was sharing with Robb. The noise of the chatter died away when Jon shut the door.

_This can’t be about last night. Jon doesn’t know anything…Whatever’s on his mind must be something else._

Jon pondered the floor for a moment before he looked up. With those large, dark Stark eyes of his. Bran stared back with own slightly lighter brown eyes. He shrugged his shoulders impatiently. “What?”

Jon said, matter-of fact tone, “I know.”

Bran opened his mouth to say something to the contrary, but an inspired defense to shut down this line of questioning didn’t present itself. All that came out was, “What—Listen, I don’t know what you’re—”

“You’re not missing your wallet by any chance, are you?”

He felt the air freeze in his lungs. The wallet. He had made sure to bin the condom, but his wallet? Had he had his wallet with him when he got upstairs last night? No…Bran’s hand jumped to the back pocket of his jeans where he might keep it. It lay flat, empty.

Jon was watching him, and what he saw seemed to solidify his suspicion. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the wallet, holding it in front of him for Bran to take. And Bran saw, under Jon’s thumb on the leather, was pressed a thin shred of the purple wrapper.

His mouth fell open. _I swore I got all of it._

What he had thrown away had looked like a complete square, albeit with an even tear down almost an entire side. But had all the edges of the square been manufacture-straight? He couldn’t remember. It had been so dark.

Jon nudged his hand forward again, tired of holding it out there. Bran took them, wallet and wrapper shred, sliding them into his back pocket as his face felt hot and he tried to think of something to say to undo Jon’s assumptions.

“Bran, believe me, I didn’t drag you up here to make fun or lord it over you.” Jon’s eyebrows rose as he witnesses his brother seemingly visibly shrink before his eyes. He tried to summon all the geniality and harmlessness his voice he could muster. “But, after we got back this morning, I went to get a game for your mother in the car. I opened the van up and this was right on the seat.” _Gods be good_. “I’m just telling you to be careful, alright? If it had been your mother who found it…” he trailed off.

Bran nodded his head, eyes cast low, and mumbled, “Right.”

“I’m just reminding you to, you know, be careful. Don’t be an idiot.”

“I thought I got all of it.”

“Well, you didn’t.” There was a small silence while Jon continued to watch him. Bran inwardly grumbled that he needed to get over himself and calm down. He sighed and met Jon’s gaze, trying to swallow his own awkwardness. There was a hint of a smile on Jon’s face. He asked in an undertone, “Want to talk about it?”

“No, no—”

“Okay,” Jon assured him, cutting him off. “No need to fret. I was just checking.” Jon was straightening up, relaxing now.

Bran shot back, sounding touchy, “I mean, do _you_ want to talk about that wildling girl you hit it off with?”

“Yeah, why not? Her name’s Ygritte. I got her number. When I go back up north for uni, she and I are going to go out.”

Bran shook his head. That didn’t convey his point. “Listen. Please, don’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t.”

“Please. No one. Not Robb, and **definitely not Theon**.”

“Okay. Of course. I won’t. I mean, I was going to tell Robb but if you don’t want me to, I won’t. Promise.”

“Okay. Thanks. It’s just—” He inhaled, trying to explain himself.

They couldn’t know, the rest of them. They couldn’t. They would be smirking, and they’d know Bran liked her. But they’d figure out eventually when nothing happened that she didn’t like him, not for real. Only on holiday or in her room if she had the time. He remembered Meera’s four poster bed in her room and wished he could draw the curtains shut around them, keeping everyone else out.

“It’s not such a big deal.”

“I know but—but I don’t—it was just…It’s just a sort of one-off. I—we—it’s not—”

Jon slid over to Bran and put his arm around his shoulders. “Relax. I only want to tell you to be careful. It’d be a shame for you to—let’s say—break new ground or whatever, only to have your mum throw you from the top of the cliffs right after.” He shook Bran by the shoulders until, reluctantly and still with his head bowed, Bran couldn’t help but to smile with him.

“Thanks.”

“Ah, teenagers,” Jon said, letting go of him. “Don’t be so glum. I have been there, little Bran, I have been there.”

 

** The last day **

Only a few hours remained of the holiday.

Everyone had packed up their things for the most part. They sat in the front living room, twiddling their thumbs while they waited for their parents to tell them it was time. The adults were currently outside, quibbling over route details.

Bran was glad of it. It was nice to see everyone but he desperately wanted the solitude of his room for at least a few hours. Let himself decompress. While Meera behaved perfectly normal with him, cordial, he found it stressful every time, being reminded of how bizarre this all was. Now it was worse if Jon was present as then he’d also be wondering what this must all look like to him.

Robb had started a game with Arya and Rickon on the coffee table. The players needed to build a replica of the Wall out of paper blocks, save for the player assigned as Night King whose job it was to undo their work. Sansa and Jon had taken the dogs outside for a run in an effort to tire them out before the ride.

Robb, this game’s Night King, was reminding Arya and Rickon of the rules since they seemed none too concerned with them.

A voice called from upstairs. “Bran.”

Bran had been absorbed in watching Arya and Rickon figure out how to cheat. He swiveled his head around to see Meera standing by the second floor railing.

“I think I may have packed away some of your things in my suitcase by accident. Will you have a look?”

“Okay.” He stood up to sneak past where Robb and the other two were huddled. No one even paid him any attention, apart from Jojen who had turned his head towards the stairs. The rest were too involved in the game.

“No, I’ve told you,” Robb said in his slower accent from their hometown. “You can’t bend the pieces like that.”

“We’ve invented new technology. We’re advancing as a society.”           

“I’m telling you that is against the rules. Are you men of the Night’s Watch or savages?”

Arya and Rickon added several more layers, aided by the fact that they were bending the edges of the glossy paper, which had originally been intended to slide off each other more easily.

“No! No, no,” Robb grumbled. “There’s no point. It’s not a game, now it’s just a mess of paper.”

“The Night King throws a fit when he can’t win. It’s in their nature,” Rickon said with a condescending shake of his head.

Bran reached the top of the stairs beside Meera.

She whispered to him, “Hang on a sec,” watching their tiff unfold with amusement.

 “There!” Arya proclaimed when they finished, jumping up in triumph.

Robb sat back for a moment. Abruptly he charged forward, low, and scooped Arya up over his shoulder. She yelled and kicked out, sending most of the Wall flying as Rickon scrambled back.

The door opened just then and Jon stepped in, eyes widening in surprise. “What’s this?”

Arya shouted out, “The Night King is attacking me,” from where she hung over Robb’s back.

Bran glanced to the side where Meera was grinning, delighted. It made him smile.

There was a split-second where Robb and Jon stared at each other, not moving.

Robb bolted and Jon went after him. As he cleared the doorway, the dogs came pouring in, led by Sansa.

“Nymeria!”

Their pack always became a little too worked up whenever play among their masters teetered too close to actual fighting for the dogs’ comfort. Arya’s wolf-dog bound across the room in a flash. She leapt onto Robb, bringing Robb, Arya, and Nymeria herself all crashing downwards as Jon skidded around them, catching Arya before the side of her head could smack into a cabinet.

Nymeria scrambled to her feet, skittering back and forth at the ready if Robb needed to be subdued again. Grey Wind pounced up onto the coffee table, over the ruins of the Wall.

Bran’s senses suddenly honed in on the shadow of his mother careening up the porch. He grabbed Meera’s hand. “Come on,” he said in a whisper. They just receded out of sight as Catelyn burst in, making all the dogs sink lower towards the floor.

“YOU DO REALIZE THAT THIS FURNITURE IS NOT OUR PROPERTY?”

Meera snickered silently as she opened a door on the second floor, letting Bran in past her.

“WE’RE LEAVING IN TEN MINUTES, AND YOU DECIDE TO TRASH THE PLACE _NOW_?”

With her back to him, Meera quickly double-checked that everyone was sufficiently occupied and that no one else was up here. When she shut the door, the sounds of Stark kids trying to defend themselves became muted and unintelligible. Although Catelyn’s orders to clean up the mess and start loading the cars more or less came through, being at a louder volume after all.

This was like with Jon. Another person pulling him into a room to talk in private. He hoped this would be the last one.

Though, he still hadn’t talked to Jojen.

The window in the girls’ room was close to the door. Bran drifted over to stand by it. He could see the three cars parked in front of the house from here. His father was shaking his head, unimpressed with the ruckus inside.

Meera turned back around and Bran looked away from the window. He stood by as he waited for her to start.

After some deliberation, Meera said, “Hi,” her soft voice almost apologizing that they hadn’t spoken alone for the last two days.

Bran had been wanting to speak with her, wanting to resolve the uncertainty of it all, which he couldn’t help but find maddening. But now that she was here, wringing her hands, he found he wanted it to be over already and to be back downstairs. With people he hadn’t slept with, people who weren’t now wringing their hands while they contemplated him, attempting damage control.

“Hey.”

She seemed to swell as she tried to find the words for whatever it was. _Does she think she needs to give me an ‘I’ll call?’ I didn’t ask for one…_

“About the other night…” The tightness in her shoulders, the way she had a hard time looking him in the eye—it was quite un-Meera-like. He was trying to be as unobtrusive as possible, but it seemed Meera had already worked herself up into this state before he got there, only temporary distracted by downstairs’ commotion. “I don’t know how to say this without it sounding quite dumb but, anyways…I’m glad it happened.”

Slowly, he nodded. That wasn’t what she had brought him up here to tell him. Hands in his pockets, he said, “Me too.” She smiled sweetly at that.

“I don’t—I don’t know what your expectations are. I’m still dating Tyrek.”

That wasn’t really a surprise.

Not that it made much sense to him. She hadn’t explained what she meant the other night and he didn’t want to press it, as though he had hopes or delusions about her intentions.

Since she was watching him, he offered, “Yeah,” and looked back towards her. Apparently she was hanging on his every word, forgetting to breathe. He gave up hope that they wouldn’t have to dissect this. “I understand. It’s…fine.” Her face brightened. “No big deal.” _Too much._ That had been a misstep, going by the nearly imperceptible way her brow furrowed.

“Well…” she went on tentatively. “I was sort of hoping that we might keep this between us.”

He caught a glimpse of outside. Out the window, Ned and Robb were tossing in packs into the boot of the SUV. The dogs were barking as Sansa and Arya attempted to divvy them up. Meera noticed too.

“Jon knows.”

“You told him?” She had kept her tone easy, trying to steer clear from accusatory.

He ruffled the hair on the back of his head. “Not exactly. I may have left a…little bit of the wrapper behind.” Her eyes grew wide. He hurried on, “Well, Jon found it. He promised not to say anything.”

“Oh. Okay.” She bit her lip, thinking. “He won’t tell Robb?”

“He said he won’t.”

She paled. “He won’t tell Theon, will he?”

“Pff.” That, Bran could wave off without much worry. Jon didn’t think much of Theon. He’d never betray Bran’s trust to him. Robb—maybe, but definitely not Theon. Meera looked reassured.

 _Are you asking me not to tell Jojen?_ Bran opened his mouth, trying to phrase this right since he wasn’t exactly sure _what_ he was going to tell Jojen.

Meera understood before he said anything and added, “I’m not—I’m only saying maybe we don’t, you know, publicize anything. Might make things a bit awkward.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m not telling you to lie to Jojen or anything. I wouldn’t ask that of you.”

“Okay…because he’s my best friend.”

“I know,” she said quickly. “I get it. No worries. He and I are good.”

There was a lull. Bran decided this made for sufficient scrutiny for the week over this little caper. He started towards the door behind her, saying, “Look, we probably should—” She swiveled in place so he bumped against her when he made to pass. Steadying, he looked down at her, plaintive. Why did she have to draw this out?

When she didn’t say anything, he sighed. “Meera…”

One of her hands reached up to play with the hair above the back of neck. She scanned over his face, like she was committing it to memory. She said, her mouth curving in a sad smile, “I’m going to miss you.”

“…We’ll see each other still. Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

_But it won’t be the same._

Jojen’s voice called up from downstairs. “Meera, Bran, come on. We’re almost ready to go.”

Not looking away, she hollered back, “OKAY.”

Now Meera looked sad. She said, “Have a good year at uni then.”

“I—”

Before he could say anything she pulled his head down, bringing his mouth to hers.

He felt tall when he kissed her, something he didn’t feel often. It made him feel a little handsome.

They knew they had to go downstairs. But every time one turned away to stop, the other tugged them back. Bran pulled her in closer, knowing this was it, this was the very last moment.

“Sansa,” Ned voice said outside. “Will you run upstairs and get them?”

Jon interjected, “I’ll do it.”

Meera rested her brow against him, letting out her breath. He shut his eyes, if just for a second.

They heard the snap of the front door falling shut. Meera made to move off to the side but Bran caught her and spun her back, clasping her face by the side to catch one final kiss, one which Meera giggled into, simultaneously pushing away on his chest while kissing him back, trying to get the most of him in the brief interlude. Then she drew off, took an unbalanced step backwards and hurried over to her bed. She threw her suitcase onto it, having used it as the flimsy pretense.

There was a soft knock on the bedroom door. “Bran? Meera? Are you in there?”

“Yeah,” Bran called back as a reflex. He glanced to Meera and she nodded, setting her hair right. Bran cleared his throat and opened the door.

Jon slouched behind the doorway. “Hey, sorry. Father wants to get a move on. Says any later and we’ll get stuck in the Kingsroad traffic.”

Bran stepped out into the landing. “Yeah, no, I’m ready.”

“Yup, got all my stuff sorted,” Meera said, unembarrassedly committed to the farce. She lugged her suitcase past them, smacking Bran’s arms affectionately as she passed. “Thanks for your help.”

Bran let her get a head start downstairs. Jon put his hand on his shoulder sympathetically.

Averting his eyes, a muscle tensed in his jaw before he nodded impatiently to Jon.

 

Howland and Jojen had just finished up their goodbyes. Jojen bent low to play with Shaggydog. Meera was finishing hers up, hugging Arya who was blurting out her farewells against Meera’s shoulder.

She had Jon next to say goodbye to. She paused in front of him, shrugging in her shoulders with a sheepish smile, almost blushing. He dismissed her self-consciousness with a cheerful, ‘ _bah_!’ and brought her in for a hug, the standard back-pat. Relieved, she seemed to glow, waving him away fondly when they pulled apart.

Now she just had to say goodbye to Bran and the three cars would take off.

She faced him. He resigned himself to this little formality.

He thought her expression was one of affection but it was hard to tell with her sometimes. What was going on behind her eyes could be affection, it could be guilt. She said, “Have fun at uni.”

For some unknown reason, an urge to say something along the lines of ‘have fun with your boyfriend’ popped into his head. But, almost certainly for the better, both his brother and her brother were right there. So he kept the impulse to himself. He sighed and stepped closer to her, giving her an upper-back hug. She reciprocated, gave his shoulders only the slightest squeeze.

It was weird, to feel her body pressed against his. His mind stressed the memory of his platonic relationship with Meera but that wasn’t what his body recalled.

Her hair felt nice where it touched his face and jaw, springy.

“Bye Bran.”

She let go and he took a step back.

Jon retreated and hopped into the SUV front passenger seat. The holiday was already over.

“Bye Meera.”

After a pause, she looked away from him, joining her father in the jeep.

Bran saw Jojen hadn’t walked off yet, staring at the ground instead. He glanced up and found Bran.

“So, I’ll see you next week.”

“Yeah, see you back at school,” Bran said, an uneasy twinge in his chest.

“Okay.” Jojen regarded his father and sister waiting for him. “Later then.”

“Later.” Bran gave him a hasty wave. Jojen returned a nod, then traipsed over to his dad’s car while Bran chewed the inside of his lip.

“Bran,” Ned prompted from the driver’s seat of the SUV.

Bran hadn’t been paying attention when they split into the different cars. Robb and Catelyn were taking Sansa and a few of the dogs in the second car. It took Bran a second, mind elsewhere, to realize he was in the SUV party.

Rickon and Arya seated themselves in the middle row. Normally Bran would have shunted Rickon into the back row where Ghost was napping. But this time he was only too happy to give Rickon a pass. Arya slid the seat forward so he could crawl in the back.

He ruffled Ghost’s shaggy white fur as he sat down. Ghost was either too asleep or too serene to open his eyes. The other dogs going in this car sniffed at the back of Bran’s head from behind the back row. Summer licked his ear.

Jon twisted in his seat up front, eying Bran deliberately. Bran meant to stare back in defiance. But, he decided he’d rather not. He coughed and kept his head down. 


	9. Jojen's Dorm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb, Jon – 24. Theon – 23. Meera, Gendry – 22. Sansa – 21. Arya – 20. Bran, Jojen – 19. Rickon – 15.  
> Mood: Death in Vegas – Girls

“Bran, what do you think of the name The Whitesmile Stripes?”

“The what now?”

“Pod wants the band’s name to be The Whitesmile Stripes. Sounds a bit derivative in my opinion. What do you think?”

Bran had been swiveling a pen back and forth over his fingers, tapping it across his knee. He sat on Jojen’s dormitory bed having decided that, rather than read any course syllabi, he preferred to space out, privately thinking to himself, while Jojen went about tidying up his dorm.

It was their first day back at university. Most everyone had arrived last night and thrown their things back into their old dorms. As had Jojen, and as had his roommate Donnel.

Donnel had started the year straight away by vowing to Jojen that _this_ year their room would not be falling back into its usual aura of ‘recently ransacked,’ which is how Jojen who didn’t pay attention to such things normally left it.

Bran blinked dully for a second before re-catching the last of what Jojen had said.

“Derivative of what?”

“Pshh. You don’t know bands.”

Jojen tossed a stray note into the trashcan. He was rifling through the heap of papers that had eventually come to bury his desk during their first year. Jojen had the tendency to scribble down creative inspirations as they occurred to him, thinking he’d comb over them later. Most of the notes regarded the band in which he played drums, though some pertained to solo ideas. He flipped over receipts and scraps of paper, scanning over what he’d written so as to choose whether they would go to the bin or to the pile of keepers.

This was Bran’s first day back with him as well. He was going to tell him about what happened with Meera, he meant to. He had decided as much during the last week of summer holiday he’d spent brooding around his parents’ house in King’s Landing. Before Jon returned to the North, he made an effort to coax Bran into lightening up and unwinding with the rest of them. But the special attention had only served to darken his mood.

“Will you stop? I am not sulking. We just spent a week shoulder-to-shoulder, give me some room.” And, through gritted teeth, “This is _not_ about what happened at the Fingers. Now will you please get out of my room?”

There was a little truth to that. It wasn’t Meera who weighed prominent on Bran’s mind right now. He still couldn’t quite put into words how he felt about that, if he felt anything. Under normal circumstances, one of the stages of processing the events would have been confiding it to Jojen.

 

When they were 15, Jojen had biked over to Bran’s on the night of their last day of school. He had been the first between them to kiss someone. He shared with Bran about how he and their mate Liane had found themselves alone after graduation, and how the silence in the empty music room had led to a kiss.

“What was it like?”

“Honestly, kind of weird.”

When they were 16, Jojen had asked Bran one night, “Can I tell you something?”

“Yeah.”

“You know that poetry jam thing I went to the other night, the one you didn’t want to go to? I ran into Lucas Blackwood there.”

He had told the story about how they saw each other there at the café. How they had decided to leave, walking the way home, making fun of the more hackneyed attempts from the session. How he’d been caught off guard when, hidden in a shadow out of reach from the streetlamps, the two of them wound up hastily making out before Lucas had run off.

For a few months, Bran had been the only person Jojen shared that realization with.

And when they were 15 at a camp, Bran had had his first kiss. But it had been with Meera and he told Jojen not a word. They were 19 now and, still, he had shared nothing and lied when Jojen asked if anything was bothering him.

 

Jojen rattled on, disregarding Bran’s lousy job as a sounding board. “I was thinking of names. I think we should go with something like Mouse Rat King. But none of the lads went for it. Preferring sound over substance—surprise surprise.”

“What does that name mean?”                                                          

“It’s not about meaning something. It’s about making a statement.”

“…How can it make a statement if it doesn’t _mean_ anything?”

Jojen sighed exasperatedly. Even with those who understood him, chiefly Bran and Meera, he still had to water down the more visionary of his musings. “The _words_ don’t mean anything. The words _together_ mean something.”

“Which is…?”

“It’s about repurposing the old texts. It asks how, or if, our inherited ancient morality constructs are applicable to us, living in this day and age.” Jojen looked to him, expectant. “You see? So which name do you think is better?”

“The first one, I’m indifferent to. Yours…I’m also indifferent to.”

Rolling his eyes, Jojen said, “Now that’s some input I’ll be sure to mention when we’re picking a name. That could be the deciding factor.”

“I think you should let your thesis be your thesis and your band be your band.”

“No. That’s where you’re wrong, mate,” Jojen said, shaking his head as he leaned back in his desk chair, reading something he’d scribbled on the back of an envelope. “Music shouldn’t be hollow beat fetishism. It’s about art, about saying _something_.”

Not being able to help himself, Bran muttered, “The only statement that is making is self-indulgent over-analysis of name pretensions.”

Jojen grumbled disapprovingly as he chucked the envelope into the trash.

Bran stared out the dorm window by his side. “Hey, um…”

“Mhmm?”

“…What do you think of the bloke Meera is dating?”

Jojen shrugged. “Seems fine. Nothing special.”

“Good guy?”

With a bit of an impatient bite in his tone, Jojen said slowly, “He’s not an evil man.” He lifted up a notebook on the desk, spilling the ash tray hidden underneath it. “Fuck.” He attempted to brush the ash off without sending the remaining papers flying.

“I mean do you like him?”                        

“What, for me?” 

“No, no. Like, do you two get on?”

“Can’t say. Haven’t really hung out with him. He seems kind of boring. Why?”

“No reason.”

“Hmm?”

It took Bran a second to grasp that Jojen was pressing the question. Turning from the window he replied back with his own, “Hmm?” 

“Why do you want to know about my relationship with Meera’s boyfriend?” Jojen spared Bran a glance in between scanning the papers in his hand.

_Alright, here we go. Out with it._

But Bran procrastinated again, not wanting it to seem like he was vetting Jojen’s reaction. Which he was.

“Oh, well it’s just—” he invented at random, “I heard Arya asking our mum if she could bring a guy home. And I—I didn’t really have a reaction, I guess.”

“Why would this be a new thing for you?”

“What?”

“Sansa’s already dated tons of guys.”

“Yeah well, I suppose I expected that. Arya though, she’s more a tomboy. I guess…she’s kind of like Meera in that way…” He trailed off, the comparison only just occurring to him and making him a bit uncomfortable.

“Bran, is there something you want to tell me?”

“Is there…?”

“Is there something you want to tell me?” Jojen repeated, by all appearances still paying more attention to the crumpled notes than to Bran’s train wreck of explanation.

Jojen finished sorting the handful of papers he had been working on, placed them down, and looked up. He had never been adverse to confrontation, always straight forward. Unlike most people, Jojen was able to stare someone down without needing to make a face or look away. Bran, however, moved his eyes onto his own feet on the bed.

Jojen waited.

Not wanting the moment to keep expanding, Bran managed, “Yeah.”

Jojen’s eyebrows raised ever so slightly as if to say ‘ _go on_.’

“I slept with Meera.”

The sentence had a jarring, gawky ring to it. Bran repressed half of the wince that popped up across his face at the sound. He made to meet Jojen’s eyes but glanced away and back again. Maybe staring straight-on would be aggressive coming from his side.

After a loaded pause, Jojen’s eyes returned to the now less-messy desk in front of him and resumed making sense of the piles. “I know.”

“Oh…Meera told you?”

“Pfft,  _no_. She never tells me anything.”

“But—”

“It’s a bit obvious, innit? Have you seen the way you two look at each other? It’s like you’re sucking each other off right there and then.” 

Bran shuddered, “Euh!”

Jojen ignored him. “It happened over holiday, didn’t it?”

“...Yes.”

“Figured.” Jojen leaned back, taking a stack of papers in his hands and began to inspect piece after piece, occasionally tossing one away. 

“You’re...you’re not mad?”

“Mad at what?” 

“About it, you’re not mad?”

“About you sleeping with someone? No, why would I be mad? About my sister sleeping with someone? No. Again, why would I be mad?” Bran wanted to consider the matter finally settled, to feel the relief he had been counting on. But Jojen was flitting through the papers a little faster than was necessary. He couldn’t even be really usefully assessing them, swiping through them at that rate. “That being said,” Jojen added at last, “what I do not appreciate is being lied to.” 

“I didn’t—”

“Did Arya really ask about bringing a boy home?”

Bran’s shoulders slumped. “Okay, no. But I was just testing the waters. I wasn’t going to actually keep that up.”

“ _Testing the waters_?”

“I don’t knoww. Some guys get angry—there are rules and stuff—I just wanted a sense of how you’d react.”

“And if it looked like I’d react badly?”

“I don’t know,” Bran grumbled. “I didn’t think that far ahead.”

Jojen huffed. He let the pile of papers lay against his chest as he started picking at the threads of his trouser-knees.

“I’ve thought you had a thing for my sister for a while now but—whatever—I didn’t know if it was just Meera enjoying the attention or what. It’s not my business. Although I will point out that you’ve told me about the three other girls you’ve slept with so this omission feels _targeted_.”

“I’m sorry, alright? I just sort of psyched myself out. I didn’t mean to hide anything maliciously.”

Jojen clicked his tongue, irritated. “Bran, Meera’s a grown woman. I am not her keeper. I’m not going to chase after every guy she sets her eyes on down the street with a spear. You though…” Now it was Jojen’s lack of eye contact which alarmed Bran. “You’re my best friend and it’s not cool that you’re treating me like some fragile nutcase you have to handle with care.” 

“No! No, that wasn't it.”

“No? No—you weren’t dancing around, trying to hide what’s going on from me?”

“It wasn’t about _you_ , it was about _me_. _I_ don’t like confrontation. _I_ felt embarrassed. I felt like I kept something from you. I didn’t tell you when your sister kissed me four years ago at camp because it kind of felt like…like it was just a joke. And if it wasn’t real, why would I tell anyone? It’s embarrassing…It’s just highlighting how I’m not good enough for your sister.” Jojen looked up again, brow furrowed. “She kissed me again a few years after that but, still, it felt like...”

He had wondered if it was only a laugh to her even then. Like she just wanted to see if she could rile him up. But when he had slid his hands under her skirt and felt her, he had found her slick with wet. When her eyes shut, they opened again blown wide in excitement. Her breathing had grown fast, shallow.

Somehow, he figured he needn’t highlight such details here.

“It still didn’t feel like anything real. And then what happened on holiday just...sort of happened. All of a sudden. I didn’t _plan_ to keep anything from you. That’s why I’m telling you. I’m sorry.”

“...Alright…” Then, raising his eyebrows in exasperation at the desk, Jojen mumbled sarcastically, “No need to get so _emotional_.”

Bran leaned against the dormitory wall beside Jojen’s bed, cheered. His features relaxed as, at last, he felt the guilt of inadvertent secret-keeping begin to ebb away.

An idea for a dig occurred to him. He wondered if they were back to normal enough for him to try it. With the hint of a smile, he ventured, “So…wanna hear about it?”

Jojen shut his eyes as he sighed. “Gross, dude.”


	10. Greywater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb, Jon – 24. Theon – 23. Meera – 22. Sansa – 21. Arya, Jojen – 20. Bran – 19. Rickon – 15.  
> Mood: The National [aka Rains of Castamere band] – Lemonworld; Evenings – Friend (Lover)

** Greywater **

In the small town of Greywater, tucked away in the southern outskirts of the North, the two Reeds had stepped onto the train platform no more than half an hour ago. Greywater’s railway stop consisted of little more than the platform and its adjacent parking lot. Only outdated, local trains stopped here. Not like the large, sleek stations of Winterfell, King’s Landing, and Oldtown, in between which bullet trains were constantly speeding back and forth.

It had been over a year since Meera had made the trip to the remote backwater where her parents had both grown up. But a month after classes resumed came the four-day weekend surrounding the festival of The Mother. Feeling pressured by Jyana’s not-so-subtle reminders, this time Meera tagged along with Jojen who had already agreed to take the train up from King’s Landing.

Despite the holiday not being native to them, the national days off work and constant advertisements nudged Northerners into mostly honoring the holiday’s most basic custom and paid homage to their mothers. Except in the northernmost reaches where life carried on, untouched by Andal culture and where Old Tongue phrases were heard peppered into the conversations at local pubs, even Northerners felt compelled to at least give their mothers a phone call.

 

Once deposited in the main house of their grandparents’ farm and shunted along to the kitchen table, Meera and Jojen could do little but sit, side by side, waiting for the initial wave of fussing and questioning to subside.

A few of their cousins were in town, The Mother’s Day having inadvertently turned into a mini-family reunion.

Their grandmother, mother, and Aunt Nell meant to make the most of it. The three of them wasted no time in getting the mandatory questions about Meera’s impending graduation and Jojen’s developing thesis out of the way.

Meera set the cup they had wedged into her hands down on the table. “Jojen and I should really put our things away before tea.”

Jojen made to stand but halted as their mother cut in, “ _Tsst_. Put your things away in a moment, we haven’t seen you for even five minutes yet.”

Wary, he sank back down again. Jojen liked spending time with his sister. He liked spending time with his mother. But not together.

They may have appeared very different at first glance. Normally, you would find Jyana sitting with her legs tucked underneath her, quietly reading, whereas you would probably find Meera doing something like recklessly testing if she could indeed outrun a lizard-lion. But at their core, they were too similar to get along. Their mutual stubbornness only made it that much more of a headache to witness one of their quarrels.

“Meera,” their grandmother began once they had cleared the preliminaries. “Tell us about your Lannister boy I’ve been hearing about.”

Meera’s polite expression grew wooden.

 _Not a great start_. Jojen thought that, by now, they might have caught on to the fact that Meera did not care for being discussed her behind her back.

“Who’s been talking to you about a Lannister boy, Nana?” Meera asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.

Jyana shrugged matter-of-factly before their nan could answer. “Well, of course I told them you’re seeing Darly’s son.”

“Darlessa,” their grandmother murmured, sipping her tea. “How Darlessa ended up with a catch like that Tygett Lannister when you dated him first, I’ll never know.”

Apparently that detail had not been known to Meera.

“You went out with Tyrek’s father?” she spluttered. “That’s why you wanted to set us up?”

“Oh, no, no. That was ages ago. We didn’t even date. We went out on a double date, me and Darly. But we fancied a switch, I preferred his friend and they were more compatible with each other anyways. Gods, I can’t even remember the name of his friend anymore.”

“Preston, it was,” Aunt Nell said.

“That’s it. That’s the one. Preston Greenfield. I wonder what he’s up to.”

“Never married from what I’ve heard.”

Jojen chewed the inside of his lip. There was something rehearsed about how quickly they had switched to the topics of dating and marriage, something which they had begun to press on Meera during her last year at university and which always led to an argument.

“Jyana, how old were you again when you got married?”

“I was 22. We waited until graduation, but we got married before either of us had started to work full-time.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jojen caught Meera shooting him a rather bleak look. He chuckled under his breath out of sympathy.

She couldn’t help herself. Picking up her tea for a sip, she hummed, “Hmm, and how did that work out for you?”

“ _Meera_.”

Barely repressing a snarl, she shot back, “ _What_?”

Jojen set to quietly calculating the different directions this could turn as another round of quibbles came pouring over Meera, already gripping her mug in a clenched fist.

“You act like your family wanting to know how you are is such an imposition.”

“We only want to check up on you. Is it so wrong that we want to know if you two get along?”

 “You know, Meera, we rarely see you. You never call.”

“Just tell us, is he kind?”

“Would you say he’s better or worse than Leo?”

“More important, is he handsome?”

Meera said, terse, “Yes, fine. He’s all of those things.”

Jyana sighed loudly. “We only want to check if you’re happy. _So_ sorry.”

“I would be happier if you would stop pestering me.”

                                                                    

Their grandmother clucked her tongue. “You shouldn’t talk back to your mother on The Day of the Mother.”

Having had enough, Meera hopped up. “We don’t even pray to The Mother,” she snapped. She swung her bag over her shoulder and strode out of the kitchen, down the hall.

They tutted under their breath, turning their faces now to Jojen.

“Long train ride,” he brushed off. Getting to his feet to excuse himself at last, he added, “Meera and I should probably stretch our legs out before it gets dark actually.”

 

It had been ages since either of them had returned to the creek behind their grandparents’ estate. As kids they had camped in most of the tree houses hidden within the marshy forest back there. Some of those had even been built by their late grandfather, most built long before. They probably shouldn’t have used them at all, at least not without testing the foundations. But they had been small then and without true appreciation of their own fragility, even with Jojen’s condition. It wasn’t until seeing the metal braces that had been set around Bran’s legs they began to give hypothetical adventures’ safety some consideration before steaming ahead.

Jojen wondered if any of their old maps were still out there.

As they reached the end of the field, the beginning of wet earth around the creek, Meera kicked off her sandals to step into the clear water. The water only came up to their calves here but deepened around the bend up ahead.

She patted down her pockets. Twisting around, she asked him, “Did you bring any fags?” He shook his head no. “Damn.”

“Mum will have some.”

“Sod that.”

Deciding he didn’t feel like getting wet, Jojen began to follow her progress alongside the bank. Both of them were in shorts, although Jojen paired his shorts with a hoodie, perpetually cold as he was.

“Do you want to go into town to get some?”

“Nah.”

Meera waded down the creek in the direction they usually wandered. Some of the bog had changed over the seasons, but many of the boulders and even the behavior of the current were as familiar as they had ever been.

Grinning, he said, “Maybe we’ll go next time the inquisition starts up again.”

She spun around in the water, facing him as she paced backwards. “Did you hear them in there?! Honestly.”

“They’re just a bit over excited.”              

“Puh. They’re empty-nesting. They only want me to throw out my _entire_ life so I can provide them with a diversion.”

“I know,” he said, sincere. “But they’ll calm down.”

“If they don’t, I’ll have to find them a new cat. Or I suppose they could always get—oh, I don’t know—a _hobby_?”

“Mee-ra.”

“Do you not think they’re being incredibly selfish with all that baby cravings nonsense?”

“Baby cravings,” he repeated, laughing lightly at the sound of it.

As they approached the first bend, she grumbled, “The nerve.”

“They don’t mean it intentionally.”

“Is that any better? ‘It’s not selfish because it never even _occurred_ to them to consider you in the first place?’”

“Noo. I’m not saying that. I’m just saying maybe try to be the bigger person. Don’t let them get to you.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“It is. It is easy for me to say which is why I won’t harp on about it.”

They reached the turn where the creek deepened out on one side, deep enough to swim in and use the swinging rope someone had fixed to an overhanging branch.

The bank rose higher above the water level here. Jojen found himself a tree root along the ridge that worked as a less muddy place to sit.

“Can I ask you about him, or will I just be adding to the fire?”

She said, in a voice of mock-gravity as she tried to spot the little fish that lived here, “ _You may ask_.”

“Are you dating him for them or for you?”

Meera shrugged. “Probably a bit of both. He’s not too bad. And it’s nice because he’s like me; he doesn’t really want the kind of serious relationship his parents are pushing on him either.”

Under the water, her feet edged around where the creek floor dipped.

“Should I go under?”

“No.”

Meera plunged in headfirst anyways. Shirt, shorts, and all. He grumbled as he waited for her to reemerge, her head breaking the surface towards the center of the pool.

“Ho-ly fuck. It’s freezing.”

“You’d have thought the water around your feet would have told you that, huh?”

“It’s colder over here.” She shook the hair out of her face. “I’m just kidding,” she said, audibly shivering. “Jump in, the w-water’s fine.”

Jojen swung his legs lazily underneath his perch. “You’re a nut.”

She kicked out, gliding towards his bank.

When she made it back to their side, clothes soaked, hair dripping and bedraggled, he said, “Mum will be real impressed.”

Her face lit up. “Yeahh. Maybe she’ll realize no man will ever have such a creature and her hopes will be crushed.”

 

Jojen’s hoodie hung off Meera’s wet shoulders as they made their way back. Even with the water as cold as it was, they had dawdled longer than was necessary. By the time they cleared the forest and were heading back across the field towards the house, the sun was well on its way to setting in a peach sky.

Meera paused in the field to pay the sight a moment’s notice, uncoincidentally drawing out the time before she had to go back and behave herself. “Can you see any stars yet?”

Jojen stopped too. “Not yet. Still too bright.”

“On a clear night you can see the brightest stars already. But not with the clouds _and_ the light.”

He glanced to the side at her before lowering his eyes, jaw tight. She did make him appreciate little physical details he might have otherwise missed.

He murmured, reciting, “There was a star riding through clouds one night, and I said to the star, ‘Consume me.’”

“What’s that?”

“It’s from a book.”

She gave him an impressed sort of look before resuming their march back to the house. The sky had begun to darken.

“Meera.”

She peered over her shoulder to listen, arms crossed over her chest to keep warm.

“There’s something I want to say.”

“Is it about them?” she asked, jerking her head towards the house.

“No.”

She shifted her feet around to complete the turn, facing him. Then, with a little smile, she shooed away a chicken that had come over to inspect them.

“I know you’re grown. I know Bran’s grown.”

Her smile faded.

“I don’t think it’s my place to tell you what to do. And I know Bran can make his own decisions…But he’s my friend, and I don’t want to see him get hurt.”

“I—”

“Wait, just listen.” She nodded, mouth zipping shut. “It’s not that I think you’d lead him on. It’s just, well, seeing as he’s my best friend, I think I know him pretty well. Better than you, or most people for that matter…And I think he really likes you. More than you may realize. And,” he continued, with the shadow of a fond smile flickering across his face, “he can be a bit of an idiot. Say he’s fine when he’s clearly not—that sort of thing. He’s got a bit of tunnel-vision when it comes to you. So it’s possible, no matter how fair you might think you’re being, or even objectively are being, that what he sees and what you see aren’t the same. Just thought you should keep that in mind.”

Meera looked off to the side, uncomfortable.

He tacked on, “I don’t mean to pry.”

“Not prying,” she mumbled. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

“You didn’t need to.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head, “but it feels like a shitty thing to do. I was just talking about how selfish they are, meanwhile I…I’m sorry.”

Normally, Meera was quick to hotly reject an attempt to reign her in. She said that what people really meant when they chided ‘ _act like a lady_ ’ was ‘ _sit down and hush up_.’

But never with Jojen. He wasn’t like them, and their relationship was singular.

Maybe it was because the two of them alone had swung back and forth in between their father’s and mother’s homes. Or maybe their parents were just clueless. For whatever reason, it felt like they had raised each other, more so than by their parents.

He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her into a hug, his face rather somber. Even with his footing beneath hers on the field’s slight incline, her face came up only to his shoulder. He pressed a kiss onto the side of her head, resigned to the fact that he couldn’t help.

He didn’t know what it was that was bothering her, and Meera didn’t like those kind of questions. It could be Bran, their family, the way she couldn’t stand their mother anymore, her boyfriend, or something else. Maybe it was a combination.

If she wanted to confide in him, she didn’t know how. So instead, she merely hugged him back, grip perhaps a little tighter than usual.

He waited, giving her the time to turn her thoughts over, her hair dripping on him.

 

Meera wasn’t someone who cried. The only times he could remember seeing her cry was if she had been caught off guard, shaken by a sudden adrenaline rush, or if something went wrong with Jojen that was beyond her help.

She hadn’t cried the night they overheard the hushed argument.

They had listened, unseen, crouched on the stairs. From behind the study’s closed door, their parents’ familiar voices sounded different. Drained, wretched.

Eventually, when Meera had heard enough, she grabbed Jojen by his collar and dragged him back to his room. She had seethed, either at their parents or at the world, when she realized he was crying.

She had tried to talk him out of it. Convince him everything was fine, shield him. He wasn’t stupid though. He knew their life would change, probably the worse for them but, maybe, the better for their parents. Meera had seemed more burdened by his reaction than by anything else. He didn’t want to cause her distress. But he knew, also, that the only thing holding it all in would achieve would be allowing the bitterness to fester.

The day their father moved out, all four of them drove to his new house, Jojen in Howland’s car and Meera in Jyana’s. Their parents wanted them to know where Howland was and how to get there, worried that otherwise it might seem like he had disappeared.

“You two will spend the weekend here,” Jyana said as they stepped outside their father’s new place having given it a once-over. Movers already had put most of the furniture into place.

Jojen nodded. Meera said nothing.

Their mother gave them a gentle push. “Say goodbye now.”

Howland hugged each of them in turn. While Meera held onto him tightly, he rubbed her back, knowing she hated every step of this. “It’s only a fifteen minute drive. And I’ll be driving you home tomorrow from school, alright?” Still, she said nothing.

When she stepped back, Jojen extended his hand to her. He led her away, back to their mother’s car, leaving their parents to figure out their own goodbye. Jojen knew anything anyone could say right now would just make her angry, so he stayed silent. Her breathing had sounded choppy beside him, but she wouldn’t cry. Meera wasn’t a crier.

 

** King’s Landing **

It was Sunday, a few hours before Robb would drive Bran out to his campus to drop him off.

Jon hadn’t bothered coming down from the North this weekend. He never took any joy in the Day of the Mother or the Day of the Father, the nation-wide reminder of his parents’ passing leading him to brood. At least now he could take solace that his girlfriend was a wildling, and her people cared not one fig about the Andal holidays.

Catelyn had instructed Bran to help Ned and Robb in the backyard where the two of them were attempting to cut down the dead tree which had fallen to blight. Really, Catelyn just wanted him to watch so he could learn. But, not feeling interested, Bran lied, saying he would get to it in a minute, and went upstairs to lie down in his room. Sometimes he missed his room when at university.

He had closed his eyes for a few minutes, just starting to drift off, when there was a knock on his door.

“Mum, I told you. I’ll get to it in a minute.”

Completely unexpected to Bran, it was Meera’s voice that replied when the door opened. “Is that anyway to speak to your mother on this holy day?”

He gaped at her before sitting up on his bed. “Meera. What are you doing here?”

She swiveled around to shut the door behind her. His mind reeled in all manner of unseemly places, which he mostly disliked more than liked. Mostly.

Facing him again, her mouth broke into a gracious, almost embarrassed smile at the look he was giving her. “I told your mum I was dropping off Jojen’s inhaler, so you give it to him at uni for me.” She drew in a deep breath, taking in the surroundings of his room as she brought up her hands, wringing them before her chest. Bran sat motionless, still disoriented from her sudden appearance. “I think I owe you an explanation. It’s possible— _possible_ —that my behavior towards you might come across as a bit…erratic.”

She studied him for a second, most likely not getting much of a read from his blank face, before pressing on. “What happened, on holiday…I mean, I feel a bit bad that I—that I’ve been pretty brash. And my little explanations avoid explaining anything.”

A new version of the full scenario clicked into place. He swallowed, his gaze dropping to the floor.

“Meera, it’s fine.”

“What’s fine?”

“If you…I get it.”

“You get what?”

“If you were…” He wasn’t sure how to say this delicately. “If you were working out some issues or something, like a disagreement you and Tyrek had or…whatever.”

Meera lowered her hands.

“You think I slept with you as a means to assert myself with someone else?”

He glanced nervously at her. She looked taken aback.

When he didn’t answer, she said, “Well, I’m glad I came to clear the air. Bran…my behavior towards you only has to do with me and you. No one else.”

The room was quiet.

“I know I flip on and off with you. I suppose I…I don’t think anything should happen between us,” she said quickly, her voice soft as she finished. They both had grown quite still. “I just don’t think it would be wise.”

He gave her a nod, chewing that over.

“And I guess, if that’s how I feel, the logical question is why did I start things with you in the first place.” She made to say something but her voice caught in her throat and she turned her face down, grumbling, “Nope. Can’t do it.”

“Do what?”

“I can’t. I can’t say it.” With surprise, he saw that her cheeks had started to flush. “I thought about writing it out but that’s just too preschool.”

“What is it?”

“Well, in order to give some sort of explanation of why I sort-of-accidentally kept starting things with you even though I don’t think it’s wise, I’d have to admit that you’re kind of hot. Which I would never do.”

He felt a smile spread over his lips in spite of himself.

He agreed, “Never.”

“Never.” She peeked at him, cheery and embarrassed. “Bran…I’m sorry if I’ve been weird.”

“No—”

“I really wouldn’t want things to be weird between us.” Her face was sincere, something imploring and actually quite worried surfacing. “I would hate myself. I really like you, in general and as Jojen’s friend. And I like your family. I wouldn’t want you to feel unwelcome at Jojen’. Or uncomfortable at the holiday stuff.”

“Meera, I’m fine,” he said, though his voice had gone a little dry. “Stop worrying. So…so we fooled around? Shit happens. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.”

“Yeah.” She was watching him, wringing her hands again. “Well, if I cross the line, if I make things weird, you will tell me?” He nodded again. “Well then…I best be off. Before your mum asks why it takes this long to hand you an inhaler.”

“I’ll walk you down.”

“No, no. No need.”

“No, really,” he said, already up. He moved to open the door behind her but she put her hands on his before he could reach it, stopping him.

Her dark eyes roamed upwards to meet his.

Her lips parted when she breathed. He knew what he wanted to do, and knew she had just asked him not to.

He closed his mouth. Her eyes flit to his throat and back before, letting out an exasperated sigh, she took a step back. She shook her head impatiently at herself.

“I’ll see you.”

“Yeah.” Now his voice really had dried.

Her hands groped behind her and managed to find the doorknob. Before turning around, she gave him that apologetic smile again. “Bye.”


	11. Maiden's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb, Jon – 26. Theon – 25. Meera, Gendry – 24. Sansa – 23. Arya – 22. Bran, Jojen – 21. Rickon – 17.  
> Mood: Gavin James – Nervous (Mark McCabe Remix)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (no projecting going on here of my own issues being raised by a mom with a diff. culture than mine who made me bring presents where i knew i wasn't supposed to bring presents)

“Stark!”

Bran nearly botched his foot’s next step on the sidewalk. He halted, managing to keep himself from stumbling.

Tugging the earbud from his ear, he looked about on the street, ahead and behind him, sure he had heard someone calling him.

“Wolf-boy,” the voice called again, sing-song. “Over here.” The teasing tone gave him a creeping suspicion of who it might be.

And it was. On the opposite side of Flour Street, he caught sight of Meera sitting at one of the outdoor tables in front of a café. Unsurprisingly, she was chuckling, tickled to have caused his momentary confusion.

A dark haired lad was with her. He rested his elbows on the table as he peered over at Bran, unsmiling. For a fleeting second, Bran marked him as Tyrek. But then he remembered he had seen Tyrek in a few pictures online. And in any matter, this boy was brunet, not blond.

He didn’t seem the type Meera usually hung out with. She liked a laugh, and this boy had an unfriendly look about him. Then again, Meera enjoyed the company of all kinds of sorts. She enjoyed his company after all.

Meera lifted her hand from the table to wave at him. He supposed, seeing how they hadn’t seen each other for a few months now, convention dictated that he needs go over and say hi.

He waited for a car to pass before crossing the street and, strolling over to them, arrived in front of their table.

“Hello.”

“Hello yourself,” she smiled back, squinting a little from the sun behind him. “What’re you doing here?”

“I’m on my way to class.”

“Oh, that’s right. Jojen said you’d moved off campus this year. Very suave.”

He rolled his eyes and gave what might have been half a laugh, half a huff. He couldn’t help but glance at the quiet companion beside her.

“Whoops, my bad,” Meera said, straightening up to introduce them. “This is my mate Gendry. Gendry, this is an old friend of mine, Bran.”

He and Bran shook hands, exchanged pleasantries.

The boy Gendry looked between the two of them uncertainly before asking, “Stark? Meera called you Stark?”

“Yes, that’s my family name.”

Speaking to him, it occurred to Bran that perhaps the boy wasn’t unfriendly but simply a bit slow, giving his face a permanent look of concern.

Gendry nodded dully, still looking as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to speak. “Do you know Arya Stark?”

Bran sized him up, not particularly impressed.

He seemed to be of an age with Meera. He seemed to be a bit strapping as well, given that the plain t-shirt he wore did not hide his thick arms. At least it could be said that nothing about him hinted at the sort of upper-class boy who tried to flaunt his muscles for everything they were worth, wearing V-neck shirts two sizes too small.

“I’ve met her.”

Meera clicked her tongue. “He’s being an ass. She’s his sister.”

Gendry sat up. “Ohhh. You’re one of Arya’s brothers.”

“How do you know Arya?” Ever polite, Bran added, “If I may ask?”

“We did a study abroad thing in Braavos.”

“Oh, right.” Bran recalled that before attending university, Arya had spent a summer there on scholarship.

Gendry smiled a little as he relaxed. “If you see her, could you tell her I say hi? I don’t know if she’ll remember me. She’s really cool. We had a lot of fun in Braavos.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Meera grinned too. She had leaned back in her seat, her elbow resting on the top of the chair. “You know, Bran and I did something similar. Not study abroad, but camp. But we had fun too, didn’t we, Bran? I wonder if they had fun like we had fun.”

His mouth tightened as he turned to her. She winked at him, too fast for Gendry to notice.

 

Most of the storefronts were plastered with Maiden’s Day advertisements already. Presents to buy for girlfriends and female friends. Maiden’s Day presents revolved around beauty in one form or another, whether physical or spiritual: shoes, makeup, poetry.

Drinking his morning coffee, Bran regarded the shop across from his seat by the window in Crossroads Café. The glass wall of the shop was covered mainly in an advert for makeup sets.

> LYSEEN LUSCIOUS™

Maybe it was because he had ran into Meera sitting outside this café two weeks ago. Whatever the reason, he was thinking about her. He played with the notion of getting her something for Maiden’s Day. He knew that she and Tyrek had broken up last month but he harbored no fancies that it meant anything for the two of them.

He didn’t know why exactly he felt an urge to give her something. Bran fully expected them to remain nothing more than platonic friends, even if occasionally one of them might nostalgically reminisce about that once-off fling. The only concern he had was if Meera _would_ read a Maiden’s Day gift as a signal that he had hopes for something more.

It didn’t need to mean that though. Boys might not get their sisters or cousins anything on Maiden’s Day, but it was perfectly normal for a boy to give a gift to his female friends without any implication. It would not even be the first time Bran gave Meera something for Maiden’s Day, although he did not like to remember that time.

 

He had been 11, Meera not quite yet 14.

The Starks had just returned home to Winterfell for the summer. Bran’s legs had become to regularly manage short intervals on their own and he was happy to ditch his crutches when leaving for a sleepover at Jojen’s. As he and Ned made to leave, Catelyn spotted them and ran to block the door.

“Wait! It’s Maiden’s Day.”

Eddard frowned. “I had forgotten.” Apparently his father did not pay any attention to adverts.

Tapping his foot, Bran grumbled, “So?”

“So, you can’t go to the Reeds empty-handed.”

“…Jojen’s not a maiden?”

“No, but Meera is. It’s rude not to bring anything.”

“Mum, _no_.”                  

Ned suppressed a smile at their little boy’s sputtering indignation.

“Catelyn, the Reeds are Northern. We don’t celebrate Maiden’s Day.”

She had already disappeared into the next room. “Nonsense. He _cannot_ go without a token at the very least.”

“But we don’t have time to stop and get something.”

“I’m sure we have something.”

They heard Sansa squawk. “ _Mum_!”

“Don’t worry, I’ll get you another one.”  

By the front door, Bran whined impatiently, looking up at the ceiling in exasperation. “Daddd.”

“Don’t be ungrateful,” Eddard said gently, nudging the back of his shoulders to make him stand straighter.

Maybe Bran could hide the gift and in his pack and no one would be any the wiser. Jojen’s sister was practically a woman grown. She didn’t want some stupid gift from him.

Catelyn came back a moment later, stuffing a headband with an ornamental butterfly into a gift bag already complete with decorative tissue to cushion it. “This will do. You just tell them you have something for Meera and then give her this.”

“Mum, we’re Northern.”

“Nonsense. You cannot go to someone’s house on Maiden’s Day and ignore their maidens, not even in the North. Trust me. Your mother knows these things, she’s been around for longer than you. Off you trot.”

 

Bran submitted. There was nothing to stop him from keeping the gift bag inside his backpack and discarding it safely sometime in the future.

For some reason, Bran hadn’t thought that his father, who was raising six children, would be any the wiser.

When Eddard parked at the Reeds’, he unfastened his seatbelt. “I’ll just say hello to Howland and Jyana.”

“…Okay.”

Bran and Jojen stood by awkwardly while their parents made small talk, prattling on about the daft decisions of the school board or whatever it was that interested parents. Jyana, sensing the boys’ restlessness, looked down warmly at them. “I suppose we should let you two run off.”

“Cool. Nice seeing you again, Mr. Stark,” Jojen said as he turned around to head up the stairs.

Eddard raised his eyebrows at Bran.

Bran stared up at his father, pleading. His father stared back, inclined his head, not budging.

Bran seemed to shrink. He said, in the little voice he had back then, “Um, I have something for Meera.”

“Oh!” He couldn’t tell if Howland and Jyana were impressed or if they thought it was funny. Jyana called up the stairs, “ _Meera_.”

The faint music that had been playing upstairs stopped. “WHAT?” her voice called back from a distance.

“No ‘what,’ don’t be rude. Eddard and Bran Stark are here.”

After a beat they heard her clomping down the stairs. She wiped off the annoyed expression on her face once in sight. “Hello, Mr. Stark. How are you?”

“Very well, Meera. Happy Maiden’s Day to you.”

“Oh, thank you.” She stopped in front of them, looking to her parents for some sort of instruction. They nodded at Bran and Meera glanced down at him.

Squeaking, he said, “Umm, here.” He removed the gift bag from his failed-plan-of-a-backpack, not looking at anyone. “Happy Maiden’s Day.”

A curious smile crossed her face, charmed or amused, taking the bag he offered her. “Oh my. Thank you, Bran.” She pulled out the butterfly headband.

Jyana cooed. “How thoughtful is that?”

Meera looked from the headband to Bran. Her smile widened though she tried to temper it respectfully.

“That’s very nice of you.” After a pause, she leaned forward and gave him a little kiss on the top of his head.

His head sank lower as the top of his cheeks burned.

Jojen, perhaps sensing his friend’s despair, piped up. “Alright, we’re off now!” He grabbed Bran by the hand and they ran upstairs as fast as they could, with Bran’s legs still somewhat stiff-footed.

 

If his sudden fancy to give a little present to Meera was going to drudge up that episode, it might be another reason why he should just scrap the whole thing. But, he thought to himself as he finished his coffee and left a silver stag on the table, it would be nice _not_ to be barred by those childhood memories. He could give Meera a Maiden’s Day gift as an adult, just like he could give one to any of his friends. They were no different.

 

Three weeks passed before the chance came. Bran had figured that, small gesture as it was, it didn’t warrant a special trip to give it to her. He would simply give it to her if he had the chance, otherwise—no big deal.

Bran and Jojen were crowded around Jojen’s computer at his father’s house, laughing at the latest nonsense their former schoolmates had sent around. Meera poked her head into his room, leaning against the doorframe from the outside. “Jojen—hi, Bran.”

Bran looked up from the computer, thinking to himself that he’d better find a time to give it to her today before he left.

Unless the idea _was_ weird and he should just forget about it.

Jojen turned to see what she wanted.

“Dad needs you.”

“Why?”

“I dunno. He’s on the phone. Maybe it’s the university…or Dr. Gormon?”

“…Shit.” Jojen bolted out the room. Bran heard him scrambling down the stairs.

His eyes met Meera’s. She gave him a wave. It might have looked sarcastic to others but Bran knew it as her way of being genial.

“How you been?” she asked.

“Good. School’s been good. You?”

“Not bad. I got a little promotion,” she said, voice dipping into pretend-importance on the last word.

He could see in her face that behind the joke-pride was actual pride. The thought warmed him. “Nice.”

“I know, I know. I’m awesome.” She stood up from slumping against the doorframe.

Before she could turn to leave, Bran called out, “Wait, hang on a second.” He grabbed the messenger bag on the floor by Jojen’s desk. He had taken to carrying the thing around with him since he wasn’t sure when or if he would see her.

He pulled out the ball of protective tissue paper around which he had slapped a cord of tape.

“I saw this a few weeks ago. It reminded me of you. So…here. Happy early Maiden’s Day.” He blurted out, “Don’t read anything into it—really. I just thought it was nice.”

Meera took the ball of tissue tentatively from him, eying him and then the present in turn. She tried not to let herself smirk at the poor wrapping job. “Can I open it now?”

“If you want.”

“How ever will I destroy this beautiful wrapping though?”

That made him smile. “Oh, shut up.”

“I’m assuming you got it gift wrapped at the store.”

That made him chuckle. “Shut _up_.”

She peeled back the layers of tissue. Something thin and silver fell into her palm.

It was a necklace, nothing ostentatious or grand. The cord was a plain silver chain. In the middle hung a pendant, silver fastenings around a chartreuse stone that glowed a little in the light.

With her free hand, she picked up the pendant carefully to turn it over. Looking at it from every angle, she said, simply, “A firefly.”

“Yeah. Well that’s why it reminded me of you actually.”

He wasn’t exactly being honest. In fact the real story about how he had procured it was quite the opposite.

An image had formed in his head of what he wanted to give her, and he hadn’t felt like accepting anything else. When nothing online met his standards, he decided to take a gamble and reach out to Meera’s mate Gendry. From the little Arya had fessed up to when he passed on Gendry’s greeting, he knew that he worked as an apprentice at a smith’s.

Gendry had told him that he knew his way around making jewelry well enough, even if he neglected to practice that detail-orientated branch of work. But Gendry had been only too happy for an excuse to repeatedly come by their house and discuss the project. Bran had thought it could have been just as easily discussed over the phone, but he refrained from pushing the objection. In this case, he need rely on Gendry just as much as Gendry was relying on him.

In Meera’s palm lay the silver pendant, which Gendry had molded into the shape of a bug, achieving a level of design straddling the fine border between intricate and minimalist-clean. The lightning bug’s body ended in the yellow-green stone, tucked slightly under the silver extension of its wings and encased with thin straps of the metal so it would not fall out.

She glanced up at him.

“But…it looks expensive.”

“Oh, it was just from one of those second-hand stores. It’s nothing fancy. The stone’s a sphene, the lady told me.”

_So now there’s ‘a lady.’_

He hadn’t planned on actually lying. He had been hoping to merely avoid drawing much attention to the actual effort that went into it, so that Meera would not mistake the intention. But now he found himself spontaneously embellishing the fake story.

“It’s lovely.”

“You think so?”

“I really do. I mean,” she said, wide smile reappearing, “it’s no butterfly headband, but…”

Bran groaned, turning away.

“What?” she laughed. “I love that headband.”

Laughing a little too in spite of that unfortunate memory, Bran said as he returned his gaze, “I have never seen you wear a headband.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t love it.”

She beamed at him. He said in an undertone, self-deprecating, “I’ll be sure to tell my mum.”

She broke out into laughter again, covering her mouth with a hand. Then she turned her attention back to the necklace and started trying to snap open the clasp.

“Here, let me,” he said, reaching out and taking it gingerly into his own hands. “It needed a new chain so the metal’s still a bit stiff.” He pulled back the tab on the clasp so that it opened, one end slipping out of the other. He held it up in the air so she could take it back. Instead, she turned her back to him, gathered her hair onto one side, exposing the nape of her neck.

 _Oh_.  _Alright_.

Stepping behind her, his arms reached around from above as he avoided her elbow. The top of her head came up to his chin. Her hair smelled of summer, of wind and grass, and this close it mingled with the faint scent of her skin. He draped the necklace across her collar to join the two ends behind her neck.

His fingers fumbled with the clasp. It had been easy to open but it was a lot harder to coordinate the two ends so that the loop would slip into the trap at the right time. When he realized it was taking him more than a few seconds, heat flared up in his chest, face, even his hands as they hastened to finish more quickly. He didn’t want her to think of him as bungling it on purpose; he didn’t want to come off as creeping.

Meera pretended she didn’t notice that his hands were unsteady. She folded her hands together in front of her chest patiently.

He succeeded at trapping the loop finally, securing the necklace in place, his arms diving back down to his sides. “There.”

Meera combed her hair free of where some of it had been trapped when he looped the chain around her. She peered over her shoulder, then turned in place, angled her face up to him.

“Thanks.”

Neither of them moved. Bran was starting to become flustered again. What did she want?

“Really,” he mumbled. “I hope it’s okay I got it for you. I didn’t—I don’t—”

“I know,” she whispered, expression clouded, unreadable apart for the faint remainder of the smile on her lips.

He hadn’t decided on it. It seemed to happen independent of any of the thoughts buzzing inside his brain.

Bran leaned down, his hand sliding to cup her jaw so his lips could meet hers, kissing her softly. As though maybe if it were soft enough it wouldn’t count. She paused and then opened her mouth to his, kissing him back, though her hands had remained frozen where they were clasped in front of her chest.

He drew off her, snapping back to his senses.

A lead weight had sunk into his chest. He had sworn and sworn to himself that it wasn’t a ploy. That, honestly, he only wanted to give her a token of that fond shared memory. Something by which to remember…

“I’m—”

Her hand moved from her chest to his, closed on the fabric around the buttons of his collar like she had done in her room so long ago. She tugged him back down to her, catching his mouth, hooking an arm around his neck.

His eyes had closed when she had pulled him down, familiar with this routine. His head bent hers back. He slipped an arm around her to dip her beneath him. Pushing against him, her mouth was insistent, demanding. Her fingers seized in his hair, eliciting from him a small moan muffled by where they were locked together.

He hadn’t intended this. Maybe she hadn’t either. This was all building too fast. Perhaps it had never gone away and they had only been pretending not to know.

Whenever her mouth left his, his breath was coarse. Hers was hot, and tasted of juice.

A hand gripped his arm. She arched into his hold, enjoying the weightless feeling it gave her. As her head was below his, it felt easy, natural, for his tongue to slip down, push deep into her mouth.

“What the fuck?”

Their faces broke apart, Bran’s head flashed to the side to see Jojen standing behind the doorway, hands held up in mid-air, nose crinkled in distaste. They hadn’t heard him.

Bran snapped his arms back, standing up straight, and Meera went crashing unsupported onto the floor with a small ‘oof.’

“Do you two want me to leave? Because I feel compelled to point out that this is _my_ room.”

Bran bent to see if Meera was okay but she leapt to her feet, not looking at him. She pulled her shirt down to fix it, face red, lips pressed tightly together, bravely meeting her brother’s displeasure. “Alright,” she said absentmindedly, breathing heavy. “Thanks, Bran.” She tapped Jojen’s arm casually as she strode past him. “I’m off.”

Bran’s throat bound shut as Jojen turned back to him.

“The fuck, man?”

His heart was still hammering in his chest. He had _completely_ forgotten where they were.

He opened his mouth, felt his voice rasp and die and so he cleared his throat before saying, “That was…”

Jojen shook his head. “Fucking hell. You’re alone for one minute. You’d think you were a mare in heat. ”

“That was—that wasn’t—I didn’t mean for that—”

“Hup-upupup,” Jojen cut in. “I really don’t want to know. Whatever you all do is your business. I don’t want the details. Especially if they take place in _my room_. Which by the way, in case you were wondering—which I suspect you weren’t—I’m not cool with.”


	12. Arya's Birthday (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talisa – 28. Robb, Jon – 27. Theon – 26. Gendry, Meera – 25. Sansa – 24. Arya – 22/23. Jojen, Bran – 22. Rickon, Desmera Redwyne – 18.  
> Mood: Chemical Brothers - Swoon; Win Win - Victim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fucking chapter. Even after being reduced and split up. Still, the nattering. So much nattering. Next chap will be 1/10th the size.  
> Bit of Bran the Brat in this chap, one of my favorite Brans.

**10:15 ** ** PM**

Bran regarded his reflection in the mirror.

_Too much black. It looks like I’m a Night’s Watch recruit or I’m about to attend a very casual funeral._

His phone buzzed on the nightstand. The screen flashed a message from Sansa.

> _On our way. Ten min_

Muttering darkly, Bran unbuttoned his shirt. It was the third he’d tried on that evening. The rest of his brothers and sisters were already together, driving to pick him up on their way to the club.

For this weekend, Robb and Jon had come down from the North. Rickon had returned from university. And his sisters, both of whom lived farther away from Cobbler’s Square, had gone straight to the family’s house after work.

Tomorrow was Arya’s birthday. More family would be pouring in to celebrate. With the fuss their mother was making (at one point seriously considering putting together a slideshow), Arya insisted on at least making up for the imposition with a chaperon-free night on the town. Her siblings and their assorted mates would ring in her birthday at The Nightfort, where there would most certainly be no codgers or crones to spoil the fun.

The Nightfort was like any other nightclub in that it was loud, sweaty, dark, and expensive. It took special pride in being the darkest and by far most expensive. Bran had only been there once before, never feeling the impulse to go on his own. But he supposed if one craved the anonymity of the dark, wanted to go deaf, or felt like being groped by a stranger, there were worse places to spend the time.

His phone buzzed again.

> _We’re downstairs_

Bran checked his reflection one last time.

It would have to do. He had traded the black shirt for one a shade of dark pine. Bran continued to grumble indistinctly as he flipped off the bedroom light, shutting the door behind him.

Only now did it occur to him that he should have packed a bag. The understanding was that at the end of the night Jon, who had wound up saddled with driving duty, would take all of them home, _home_ home. Their mother’s anticipation over the past few weeks at the prospect of housing all of the children under their roof again had been distinctly palpable.

Bran plucked up the keys and wallet by the front door and slipped out of his flat. He’d simply have to borrow clothes from Jon or Rickon tomorrow. Their style was plainer than Robb’s, and so far plain was the only style Bran felt comfortable pulling off.

 

The night air was crisp and still as he stepped out of the lobby onto the sidewalk. They were in the early days of autumn.

The black SUV was idling by the curb in front. The same one he and Meera had climbed into on holiday. It was the only van that would fit all of them. Sansa popped open the passenger door and jumped out to let Bran squeeze past. He landed in the very back with Rickon.

The moment their mother overheard the name ‘Nightfort’ in their plans, she forbid them from taking Rickon. Robb had posited aloud, casual as could be, that he agreed and the alternative would be far safer in the long run. The alternative being that Rickon would end up going his first time alone or even with someone like their cousin Robin.

Catelyn had jabbed Robb along the side of his ribs, reminding him the ground rules, when she had, in the end, relented and given the go-ahead.

 

Up behind the wheel, Jon called, “Everyone in? Right.” The van lurched out of park.

Robb sat with Sansa in the middle row. He and Jon liked to hog the front seats for themselves. But, as it was her birthday, Arya had taken over the navigator’s seat by Jon and was busy chatting away over music that could only have been chosen by her.

Twisting in his seat, Robb greeted him with, “Y’alright, Bran?” 

“Yeah, fine. Where’s Talisa?”

“Still in Volantis with her folks. Last day though, she’s arriving tomorrow. We’re picking her up at the airport.”

“Aw. I thought she was already here.”

Jon announced to the back, “We’re just gonna pick up Theon. Then we’ll head over.”

Bran hadn’t known they were picking him up. He figured Theon would probably just  _be_  at the club since he was probably at every club on every night. “Why do we have to pick him up?”

A hint of superiority creeping into her voice, Sansa told them, “Apparently he crashed his car into his dad’s porch. His sister’s confiscated it. Locked it up at her place.”

“Driving plastered, was he?”  

“He won’t say.”

“Probably,” said Robb indifferently. “I’m glad his sister took away his car in any case.”

Rickon frowned dully. “Well, if he’s got a problem, taking him to the club won’t help much, will it?”

Bran permitted himself a small smile at Rickon’s words, proud of him. Truth be told, he didn’t quite like Theon. Theon was insecure. And that made him a show off. And a man showing off as means to compensate will get along well enough with blokes like Robb and Jon, whom they wanted to impress. And with girls like Sansa, for whom Bran suspected Theon harbored a minor crush. But they typically dismissed and talked down to boys younger than them, which in Theon’s case almost always meant Bran and Rickon.

Sansa maintained stubbornly that the problem was the combination of the two activities, not drinking itself.

“Yeah!” Arya piped up when she heard the last snippet. “No problem with drinking.”

Jon muttered next to her, “Alright, settle down,” even as he continued to smile, amused.

The van pulled off to the side and parked in front of the Greyjoys’ house. Maybe it could have been a decent house, nice even, if it weren’t so weathered and worn. Bran saw the fresh dent in one of the columns that adorned the front door.

It took Theon a few minutes after Robb’s call to come out. When he did appear, he came bounding out and down his front yard. Bran took in his jeans and egg-colored button-up, which was far too baggy. He hadn’t even bothered to button it properly.

 _Good_.

Bran had felt stupid, ruffling about trying to make himself look good, only to be immediately confronted by his older brothers who so effortlessly resembled sunglass models in a magazine. ‘ _Well_ ,’ Bran thought ruefully, ‘ _I might not look like them, but at least I don’t look like him_.’

Sansa pulled the door open again and Theon came crowding in.

“You can relax everyone. I’m here now.” Unseen in the back, Bran and Rickon exchanged a dark look. “How are my favorite Starks? Arya, happy birthday, darling.” 

Arya replied with a gracious ‘Thank you, Theon.’

Sansa shifted towards the middle and Robb further back. Theon slung his arm over the back of their row, beaming around at them all as Jon started the engine. They swayed once more with the back and forth motion of the car.  

“You’re looking positively radiant. _Ab_ solutely stunning—might I add,” he continued to Arya. “Sansa, killing it as well, as to be expected. You two certainly take after your mother. And your brothers certainly take after their  _father_ —if I may say so—unfortunately for them. Stark boys not bringing it tonight.”

_Gods grant me strength._

“Now, Rickon,” Arya said loudly over the blare of the music. “Just ‘cause we’re all here doesn’t make this like being at home. There will be no making a twat of oneself by any member of this party tonight, is that clear?”

“Why are you singling me out?”

“This is your first time at an obnoxious club. And everyone makes a twat of themselves their first time at an obnoxious club. Don’t do that. Be better than the example we’ve set for you.”

“Yeah. Learn from our mistakes,” offered Robb.

“Oi! Is tonight little Ricky’s clubbing-cherry? We ought to take a picture. You know, for the scrapbooks.”

Jon grumbled in an undertone, “It’s not only the first timers who make a twat of themselves.”

Theon leaned forward so his head could be nearly level with the front row. “If you’re referring to what is being called ‘the porch incident,’ I’ll have you know that I am an excellent driver and merely mistook gas for brake—it could happen to anyone. _And_ I was a perfect gentleman that night. So there was no twat-ing going on whatsoever.”

Robb shook his head. “Perfect gentleman—that would be a first.” 

Theon flipped back towards him. “Robb, I’ll have  _you know_ that _—_ ” 

Arya cut in, “Alright, alright, we’re about there, yeah? Rickon, behave yourself. Bran, keep an eye on Rickon.”

Rickon shot his brother a defiant look, quite clearly stating, ‘ _I don't need a babysitter_.’ Bran shifted his eyes back to the front innocently.

 

 ** 10:40  ** ** PM  **

The previous time Bran had come to this club, he had been accompanied by some of his mates from university after graduation. It had been fine.

Entering with Robb and Jon was a different experience. They seemed to know quite a few members of staff, including the bouncer who greeted them like an old friend. Theon might have been familiar with them as well but he looked so damn pleased with himself, Bran didn’t think it achieved the same aura of coolness.

Their party had a booth to themselves close to the bar. But before they were to gather there for birthday shots, the group split up, shouting vague instructions about when to meet back.

The main floor was swiftly becoming packed as Bran took to wading through the crowd to see who else was here. He felt someone tap him on the shoulder. Looking around, Bran’s face lit up.

“Jojen!”

They clasped hands, a familiar gesture, and stood rather close together as the press of people grew tighter.

Jojen said happily, “Hiya, mate. Had a drink yet?”

“No, I haven’t been to the bar.”

“Here,” came another voice. Gendry appeared next to Jojen, brandishing a beer at Bran in one hand, already clutching his own in the other. “It took me ages to wave someone down at the bar. Figured I’d play it safe and get two.”

Bran smiled as he took it, impressed to see it was a Northern brew. Nodding his thanks, he said loud enough for them to hear, “Cheers.”

 

Whenever Gendry had swung by their house last year to consult on the necklace, he always moved on from Bran to find Arya. _“I’ll just say hello.”_

Bran hadn’t seen much of him since. But that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Robb and Sansa might not seem to care if the family knew about their affairs. The rest of them though—the other Starks would eye each other with suspicion, not wanting to end up the butt of the snooping and teasing that went on with them.

 

Bran asked, “Have you seen Arya yet?” He intentionally kept his posture relaxed. It had become bizarrely apparent to Bran early on that Gendry regularly turned skittish around him. As far as he could tell, other than Arya the only Starks Gendry had met so far consisted of Sansa, their mother, and himself. He appeared rather intimidated by them, virtually tiptoeing inside their house when he came over.

“No,” Gendry replied airily, ears going slightly red all the same. “‘Spect to run into her though before the night’s over. Does 23 mean a lot to her? She seemed dead-set on partying tonight.”

“It’s not 23 that means a lot to her, just getting some space from our mum.”

At that moment, a familiar voice called, “There you lot are.”

Bran looked down and saw a vague impression of Meera’s brown curls just as she collided slightly into him.

She twisted, mid-air, in an effort to extricate her foot out from under the path of train of girls. With a forceful yank back, she broke free and teetered unsteadily, foot high in the air. Bran and Jojen caught her on either side and tipped her forward onto the points of her heels. She swiveled the right way around, chuckling merrily at the successful landing.

Jojen said in a dry tone, “Very smooth.” Gendry raised his beer in salute.

Bran could have sworn almost all the women gathered there tonight were weaving in and out among the crowd of people, their bare legs sticking out noticeably from short dresses or skirts. Almost all of them, it seemed, except for Meera. Life could never be that easy for him. Meera was in trousers.

Although, he noticed, it could not be said that Meera hadn’t dressed festive for the occasion. The trousers she’d chosen were of the black leather variety. Bold, they were, and they flaunted her figure. His eyes darted surreptitiously downwards to determine, and indeed confirm, that they did nothing to conceal the swell of her ass. His eyes flashed up to Jojen, and then quickly to his beer which he hastened to occupy himself with.

Meera was talking to Gendry though Bran completely missed what it was they were saying. From behind the bottle he chanced another glance. Jojen was plainly watching him.

Bran inwardly chided himself, more for his own sake than Jojen’s. Jojen had once called him a mare in heat. He wasn’t, he knew he wasn’t. It was only that it had been a few months since he’d seen her. And he had _never_ seen Meera in something like that.

Apart from that blip last year near Maiden’s Day, Bran and Meera had followed through on the plan. They resumed without further incident their former platonic relationship. Admittedly, it had been made easier by the fact that they no longer saw that much of each other. The two families didn’t have time to take off coordinated holidays anymore, especially with the kids working and the Reeds already splitting their time between Howland and Jyana. The last real outing had been that excursion to the Fingers. Almost three years had already passed by now.

 

Bran had not been paying attention and neglected to swallow as much beer as he poured. He realized this a split second too late and gagged, a pinch of beer slopping down his front before he could stop it. He gulped the rest, hurrying to wipe the splotch on his shirt.

There was a lull as the others stared.

Meera broke the silence, cackling. Thoroughly enjoying herself, she nudged him with an elbow. “Didn’t you just get here? That’s your first drink.”

“Cut off after the first drink,” Jojen said pityingly.

“Alright, _alright_.” Bran ignored the impulse to blush, feeble as it had been.

Hollering to make himself heard, Gendry added, “The drinks here are so expensive.”

“Just tell them you’re with the Starks.” Meera’s eyes were still fixed on Bran with that charming, evil smile of hers. “Robb’s loaded, and more importantly he’s _very_ generous. He told me there’s a couple bottles of the good stuff here just for the Arya party.”

Gendry broke out into a series of fervent ‘ _no, no_ ’s. Evidently his apprehension of the Starks themselves extended to imbibing of their alcohol. 

“Do you have a drink?” Bran asked Meera, lifting his own as if to help indicate what ‘drink’ meant.

“I had one but Theon stole it. Actually, I’ve been meaning to stop by that table over there, the one with a pitcher.” She pointed to a spot behind Gendry, taking to resting her arms around Bran’s in part so she could pull him lower. “My friend Megga’s over there. I haven’t seen her in ages, the ol’ trollop.” She grinned. “Time for me to get my sponge on. I’ll see you lads later.” She gave his arm a friendly squeeze and, with that, slipped off into the crowd.

 

 ** 11:00  ** ** PM  **

A bloke had recognized Jojen and begun to chat him up. Bran thought he seemed a haughty sort of fellow, silvery blond hair and an expression on his face that suggested everywhere he looked fared no better than Flea Bottom. But even so, Bran couldn’t deny the bloke was fit.

He left them, watching the young Westerosi crowd in front of him as he waited for the bartender to fetch him another beer.

What looked like recent graduates jostled past, shouting to their companions who couldn’t hear them. To his side, a blond woman licked salt off her wrist, her friend already finished and slamming down a shot glass. A large, hulking fellow clearly had drunk himself into a stupor before coming here.  He hung his weight around his friend’s shoulders, his face red as he bellowed chat-up lines to a woman leaning away from him with her arms crossed.

Robb and Jon were in a small circle of people, Sansa and her friends among them. Jeyne and the others must have pleaded with Sansa to blend their lot in with them. Jon chatted with the younger girls amicably, ignoring their longing vibes. Sansa was trying to talk to Robb but Robb, who wasted no time in cutting loose, was already tipsy. He was staring engaged with her, his face serious, clearly not listening to a word she was saying as his shoulders rocked markedly to the hypnotic pulse blaring from the speakers. His over-intense dancing was tripping up her concentration, undoubtedly his goal.

When she finally gave up and laughed with a roll of her eyes, Bran did too from where he stood watching them. He wondered where Arya was. Or Theon for that matter.

He spotted Rickon closer by, standing at their booth and pretending to be interested in looking around in an effort to seem busy. Bran’s lips pressed into a fond smile. Rickon was a sweet boy when he wasn’t running wild.

 

“Here.”

Bran thrust a black beer into Rickon’s hands. Another Northern brand, a stout southerners found too bitter. All the Starks though, even Rickon by the time he was fifteen, were no strangers to the taste of northern ale. Rickon smiled appreciatively.

It washed down easy. The bitterness played against the brew’s creaminess, giving it a lush quality southern wines failed to achieve.

Bran smacked his lips. “So, Nightfort. What do you think?”

“Loud. I kinda like it.”

“Yeah. Clubs can be fun. A change of pace. You just don’t want to stay too long. It’s fine at the start of the night. By the end though, when everyone’s drunk, people start acting like dickheads. Messing about, getting into fights just to show off.”

Rickon looked about at the scene in front of them, squinting at the disorienting, occasional flashes of disorienting lights. “It’s fine now.”

“Yeah. Cheers to that.”

There were no ceiling lights apart from the multi-colored spotlights that staggered and switched back and forth. But they were still in the early part of the evening, meant for people to find their drinks and their mates. Soon the supporting lights would go and the atmosphere would squeeze in on them.

Rickon swallowed another swig, his eyes fixed ahead in the distance. He mumbled, “A girl from my year is here.”

Bran almost grinned but stopped himself. The impulse was too similar to that of Robb and Jon. Their smug glee when they told him they thought he was ‘ _adorable_.’

“Oh? Who?”

“Desmera. Redwyne. She was in my year but we didn’t have many classes together. I’d see her sometimes in assembly though.”

Bran eventually zoned in on her from Rickon’s instructions. She was in a gaggle of teenagers Rickon’s age. He recognized some of them as Fossoways, though one of the boys most definitely a younger Tyrell cousin.

They stood about one of the high tables, close to the demarcated dance floor. No one in the club, however, seemed to pay much attention to where they stood talking and where they started dancing about ridiculously.

Desmera turned out to be a slight thing, impossibly skinny in a way that made it easy to spot she was a teenager. It was obvious from the way she kept staring down at her hands and drink that she was nervous. But there was something endearing about the girl. She bore her discomfort amiably, smiling as she listened to her friends.

Bran found himself almost immediately rooting for the relationship between Rickon and her he concocted in his head in the space of three minutes. _Gods, I really am turning into Robb and Jon._

The two boys began to quibble, Bran trying to spur Rickon into action and Rickon peskily shooting down each suggestion.

“And what better time is there?” Bran persisted. “You’re here in a huge group. That looks cool.”

“With my family? It’s cool that I’m here with my family?”          

“Yes. Because your family is the Starks. And we’re cool. Anyways, you’re here for your sister’s birthday. Completely legit. Go on.”

Rickon bit the inside of his lip, studying them.

 “ _Ayyy_!”

Theon clapped Bran’s shoulder. He swung around from behind them, toting an empty glass in one hand.

 _Dammit_.

Rickon had almost been geared up enough to give it a shot. His confidence had been tenuous at best. It would not surpass Theon’s teasing.

“Tricky Ricky, my man.”

“Hi.”

Rickon was already visibly smaller, pride ebbing.

“Mate, where’s your drink?” Rickon held up his bottle. “Nah, not beer, mate. A _drink_.”

“I haven’t gone to the bar. But I’ll probably just drink beer tonight anyways.”

“Like hell you will. That’s no celebration.”

“No, lay off it,” Bran said irritably. “Rickon doesn’t need to go hard tonight. Let him be.”

Theon stared at Bran as if he had sprouted a second head in front of them. “Whadya say? _Go hard?_ On alcohol alone? Your old babysitter Nan parties harder than you. Ricky, what’s your alcohol? Rum? Whiskey? Don’t say something girly like an appletini or hippocras or that’ll be the last straw.”

“Last straw?”

“Yeahhh,” Theon said, apparently heartily agreeing with himself. “Can you believe your wet blanket ginger of a brother just shooed me away from the back rooms? Assuming I was going there to find my dealer. And I didn’t even find him. It’s been like living in the Maidenvault ever since confined to a car-less life. Symon, that gobshite, won’t come ‘round to my place. Not even a sniff, on a _Friday_? By now, I swear, my nose must feel as neglected as a first wife. All your heartless brothers.” He waggled his head disapprovingly in Bran’s direction. “I got it. I know what we need to drink. _Barkeep!_ ”

A barmaid who had been crossing in front of them halted, listening.

“A round of gin rickeys for me and these fine lads, in honor of young Ser Ricky here. On my tab. Top shelf, love.”

She nodded curtly and strode off. Bran wondered if ‘my tab’ meant ‘Robb’s tab.’

Theon started in on Rickon while they waited. Whether or not he had a ‘target pull’ for the evening. Rickon awkwardly danced around the subject, refusing to divulge Desmera’s actual name.

Theon switched gears and began informing them of the developing drama. Who was here. Who they had been rumored to have it off with. This direction seemed a minor improvement. A little of the unease drained out of Rickon’s shoulders. Maybe hearing about everyone else’s embarrassments in romance alleviated some of the pressure when faced with having the ordeal himself.

The barmaid returned, carrying a tray to which they exchanged their old drinks for new ones. A tall, thin glass for each of them.

“To Arya!” Theon proclaimed raising his glass in the air. “And to young Ricky. May we all get ourselves shitfaced on this auspicious night.”

Reluctantly Bran cheered, and he grimaced as he swallowed. It tasted far too sweet, not like anything they would ever drink in their home.

Theon’s unflappable energy had begun to ooze into Rickon. He smiled in spite of himself as he drank.

“Ahhhh,” Theon exhaled, drink already significantly depleted. “So, Stark. This girl whose name you can’t seem to remember right now—she here tonight?”

“Leave it,” Bran growled.

Theon waved his glass at Bran, not even bothering to look his way. “You wait your turn.”

At Rickon’s quiet nod, Theon triumphantly boomed, “Ah _ha_. Well, what’s the problem then? It’s not like you’re…Wait a tick. Tonight’s the first time you been out to a seedy place like this? I’m _assuming_ that’s the last v-card you’re turning in. Already packed the deed away, or not yet?”

“Hey,” Bran snapped, physically shunting Rickon back a little so he could face Theon. “Cut that out.”

“Come off it,” Theon said, dragging Rickon back. “We’re all adults here.”

“Rickon’s not an adult yet.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Yeahh. Yes, he is!”

“Back off, Theon. And you back off too, Rickon.”

“See?” Theon said, taking another swig. “Gotta be careful, Ricky. Don’t wanna end up like ol’ Branny here—all blue-balled and bitter.”

“Yes thanks,” Bran shot back, unfazed. “I’m not sure the role model Rickon needs is drunk-driving Scabies-McGee.”

Theon scoffed. “Uhh, check your facts there, _Stark_. It was **crabs** , not scabies.”

“Oh, well never mind then.”

“Anyways, Ricky, my boy, who would you rather be? Blue-Balled Lonely-Face who cranks one out every night while crying in a dark room? Or Scabies McGee, which by the way you only get by having what can only be described as an _epic_ night?”

Rickon blinked. “I don’t—”

“You’re the youngest of the old gang, mate. You deserve more from life than masturbation and tears.”

“That sounds like your morning ritual, Theon.”

“ **Okay** ,” Rickon said, cutting in, spreading his arms apart to push Theon and Bran away from each other. “I’m gonna go say hi to some folks. See you guys later.” He left them. He headed off towards Desmera and her friends before pausing and ultimately changing course to join Robb and Jon standing by the middle of the bar.

Bran sighed.

 

 ** 11:20  ** ** PM  **

Bran only managed to shake Theon when a pretty girl momentarily distracted him, and he took the opportunity to vanish into the crowd.

He returned the cocktail for another beer, figuring he’d make a cursory attempt to find Jojen. He turned about and saw he had wound up close to their booth.

His eyes roamed higher, locked onto a cluster of people further on.

Meera was among them, eyes crinkled while she laughed. She put her hand on Megga’s arm as she had done with him. She was warm like that, Meera was.

When he’d first seen her tonight, he’d been caught off guard by her sudden entrance. He hadn’t had the chance to take her in. But now, seeing her from a distance, the change in her appearance sank in for him. In all the long years of knowing each other, they’d never been together anywhere like this, somewhere fancy or risqué.

Her eyes looked larger, more noticeable and charming with wisps of grey and black shining up from her lashes. All of her features stood out, clearer, playing off each other in harmony.

The straps of her blouse were thin enough, it looked more to him like a camisole, one of the shirts Sansa and Arya would laze around the house in but didn’t wear outside. If it were not for the satin-y cloth, he expected it wouldn’t qualify as an actual top. Its cloth shimmered in the blinking lights, swimming as she moved.

And the collar. It dove down. The lovely, smooth plane in the middle of her chest and the flattering shadows that fell around it, visible there in brief flashes.

Something drew his gaze up again. He realized then where Meera was looking, which was right at him. Her mouth broke into a smirk. With two fingers, she pointed deliberately at her eyes.

‘ _Eyes up here_.’

Bran turned to the side, staring very hard at the bar where Robb and Jon were laughing with each other, apparently in their private gossip.

They looked proper smart. Smarter than him. Robb in a crimson shirt, Jon in navy. _Did they ever study how to dress? How to trim their beards? Or how to grow their beards for that matter? Or does it just come naturally to them? Why doesn’t anything practical ever come naturally to me?_

Meera’s outline was looming closer in his peripheral vision. She was making her way over to him.

Did he have something he had planned to talk to her about? He couldn’t remember.

She cleared the thick of the crowd, approaching in her typical unabashed fashion. He _had_ been looking forward for a chance to catch up with her, casually. Their rapport had never seemed to fully revert to the same familiarity it once had. Although none of the scenarios Bran had pictured in which they chummed it up again started with her smugly catching him, gawking at her tits.

“Hiya,” she said cheerfully as she plunked down beside him.

No point in letting a little trip-up muddle the night. Bran couldn’t help but feel at ease. Not when her smile glowed like that.

“Hello, Meera.”

“I saw Arya. She seems happy.”

“Oh, she is. She means to make it quite the celebration.”

“Ahh, you Starks.” She bumped into him with the side of her waist to loosen him up. “What about you? How’ve you been?”

 

They chatted. It wasn’t hard, things seemed easy enough. Amiable.

When she started teasing him about his love life, accusing him of philandering, Bran shuffled his feet. Not that any of the girls he’d dated were a sensitive subject, but he didn’t quite feel like rehashing all of it now.

“Absolute scoundrel. Crushin’ it, no less?”

“Yeah.” He laughed, and added sarcastically, “Crushing it.”

“Didn’t your year vote you ‘most likely to drown in pussy?’”

He nodded, looking ahead rather than at her as he tried not to smile. “Yes, that’s true. And it was accurate. I’m quite asphyxiated.” She was chuckling silently. “I tried contacting the emergency services. But, you know, cut backs. I’m just another statistic now. Another pussy-related death this year.”

Meera giggled.

She was someone who gave herself over completely to laughter when so struck—as she was now. She giggled, and then continued to giggle, laughing with flushed cheeks and closed eyes until she braced her stomach with a hand. So he watched her, as he’d wanted to.

She was pretty when she laughed. It was her humor that was pretty—her energy. It was plain on her face, unfettered, genuine, and so extrovertedly tangible you could feel it flavor the air.

Wiping under an eye, she regained control of herself when something behind Bran caught hold of her attention. She hooked her arm around his, making him almost spill the beer.

“What? What is it?”

Meera pointed at the far end of the bar. Bran’s eyes followed, first landing on Arya. Then he saw that behind her was Gendry, finishing up an order. Beers in hand, he turned and handed her a glass, which Arya took with a slight blush. But, he saw, overall she was looking quite pleased.

As the two of them made to cheer, movement along Bran’s side made him glance away. Down where he and Meera were linked arm-in-arm, Meera was busy using both of her hands to fiddle his beer out from underneath his fingers.

“And just what do you think you’re doing?”

Meera sipped, unbothered as she ever was, and told Bran loudly, “Gendry’s a sweet guy. He’s a bit…well, he’s not very smooth. I know he really likes your sister though.”

“He said that?”

“No, he’s too shy. But after we ran into you that one time, he asked all sorts of questions. He hadn’t realized I know you guys. Seems rather taken by her.”

Bran felt an impulse to object, insist that Gendry was too old for her. But even in the split second, the hypocrisy was too blatant. Instead he merely grunted his acknowledgment.

“Did Arya ever mention him?”

“Not to me.”

“Who would she mention it to, out of curiosity? Sansa?”

“No.”

“Yeah, that doesn’t seem right.”

“Jon probably. But she wouldn’t say she liked him. I mean if she did like him. She’d just mention him. Probably complain about him.”

That seemed to tickle Meera. Something else caught her attention and she froze. Bran looked around for what it was this time. He saw as Gendry blanched. Robb and Jon had come to join the two of them.

Arya made some hasty introductions, hands were shook. Meera watched anticipatorily, caught up in both second-hand-embarrassment glee and trepidation.

Jon stood with his arms crossed in front of his chest while Robb seemed to be prompting Gendry with what Bran assumed they would defensively claim was ‘merely a harmless expression of interest.’ It didn’t help that Gendry seemed so easily flustered. They couldn’t hear a word of the conversation by the bar, but it seemed to Bran that Gendry was using entirely too many hand movements.

“That poor boy,” Meera sniggered. “Are they this protective of all their siblings? Should I be worried?” 

Bran sighed before he spared her a look. The smile was not entirely gone from his lips but something else was there now, cautionary. He might remind her that she and he were less of a thing than Gendry and Arya.

She nodded, mollified.

“I shouldn’t tease, I know.”

Gendry was still responding a little too emphatically to everything. He must have been under the impression that boisterousness conveyed calm. Fortunately, Robb and Jon seemed to be easing up. Robb’s face even moved from cold to neutral.

“I can’t help but tease you. I try not to but— _rhh_ —every fuckin’ time.”

Bran shook his head.

By the bar Gendry did one more over pronounced swing of his arm while prattling on. In the motion the top of the brown ale in his glass slid out, lurched, and flopped onto Robb’s knees and shoes.

Meera whispered, “Oh my god.” She held in her laugh out of a politeness reflex even though they couldn’t see them. Robb and Jon stood utterly unmoving, staring at the flustered southern boy, letting the moment stretch on. “Oh no, mate,” Meera groaned as Gendry rushed to the counter and tried to come at Robb with a napkin.

 

 ** 11:40  ** ** PM  **

Before the show had ended, Sansa materialized out of nowhere, grabbing Bran round the shoulders and growling at him that Rickon needed looking after. Meera had grinned and waved him off, disappearing again.

However in the time it took for Sansa to drag him over, Theon had already snatched Rickon up, ensnaring him in a conversation with the group of teens that included Desmera.

“See? This is what happens when you shirk your responsibilities. I think Theon’s been giving him shots.”

Not that Bran trusted Theon, but he couldn’t find a fault with Rickon’s current predicament. Undoubtedly he had been bullied along by Theon, but he seemed happy enough about it now.

“He’s fine.”

Sansa gave him a withering look before she strode away, muttering under her breath something which sounded like ‘family’ and ‘can’t hold it together.’

Theon had bowed himself out of the conversation. He threw Bran a wink as he made his way over.

“The boy bitches and moans but we got there in the end. Look at ‘im. Right stuck in, he is.”

Bran managed a sour smile.

“Oi, hang on,” Theon said, knocking his glass casually against Bran’s chest. “That reminds me, Meera’s here.” He nodded towards the middle of the dance floor. Meera popped in and out of sight as one of the roving lights fell on her, partially obscured by the people in front. Theon gave Bran a side-eye. “So what’s going on there?” 

“Not a thing,” Bran said, pretending he was somewhere else. “If you’re bored and looking for gossip, I’d try the Tyrell lot.”

“Come up with something more convincing, why don’t you? Denial only makes the heart grow curious.” He spoke as if bestowing unto Bran some wise edict. “Unless you’re into that—having other people notice. Then by all means, mate, carry on. I’m not one to judge. We’re all into something.” 

Bran gave up hoping that visible disinterest would dissuade him. “Theon. How’s your night going? Successful pull?”

“Early days, mate, early days,” he grinned back, not skipping a beat. “Can’t pull too early. Rookie mistake.”  

“I’ll take note.”

“You joke but you could do worse than to take some pointers from your elders. What? You been working on that one,” he gestured his drink towards Meera, “for a couple years now? What’s the hold up, why’ve you not got on that? Is it ‘cause she’s Jojen’s sister? Would Reed not approve of you plowing field in his own backyard?” Bran opened his mouth to object. But he wasn’t exactly sure what that had just meant and his mouth closed again as he instead continued to watch Theon through narrowed eyes. “Bugger Jojen. I know sisters are a touchy subject but _come on_. You need to just get it over with already. Bite the bullet. Seal the deal. Take the castle.”

“Alright. Enough.”

“Knock ‘em boots. Make a sacrifice to The Maiden. Ram down the portcullis.”

“Nope, no, no no no,” Bran sputtered. “Shut your mouth. I’ve told you.”

“Well, aren’t we a bit testy tonight? Alright, mate, calm down. You know a five-year stiffy will do that to you.”

“Stop acting like you know everyone because you don’t.”

“I see. I don’t know you. Is that it?”

“Yeah. That’s it.”

“Mmm, interesting. Well. I know that the more something means to you, the more weird and quiet you get about it. I know you mentally undress Meera every time you look at her.”

“I do not,” Bran shot back hotly.

“Or you do the Stark equivalent and picture proposing to her in a field of rainbows and wolf puppies.  It don’t matter, do it? It’s a go, seeing that Meera mentally shags _you_ too. Can’t for the life of me figure out why. Keep your pants on—I’m only joking. Point is: she’s up for it.”

Sensing their collected gaze, Meera peered over at them from across the crowd. Her smile dimmed as she looked them up and down, wondering what they were up to.

“You see?” Theon said excitedly, putting an arm around Bran’s shoulders to shake him.

“Get off.”

“Phwoahh.” Theon stepped in front of Bran, turning his back to Meera’s view as if they weren’t talking about her. “I don’t know what’s stopping you. If someone carried a torch for me like that I’d be all over it in a second, don’t you doubt it.”

“I’m not doubting it.”

“Have it your way then. Maybe you can hook up when you’re both divorced and in your late fifties.” Theon gave a cheer of his drink and took another sip. He mumbled to himself, “Nasty old sex. Naughty bits flapping about. Ugh, can you imagine? It must make twice the noise.”

Bran worked his jaw silently. Temper rising, he couldn’t help but spew, “You’ll never admit that you don’t know everything, will you?”

Theon downed what was left of his drink. He gave a great swallow while he considered Bran.

“Alright. Do you want it to be real-o’clock?” Theon shunted the empty glass into the hands of bartender who hadn’t been looking their way, ignoring the man’s affronted scowl. “Listen. I know you got all shy after your little tour in the hospital.”

Bran stared. In a million years he wouldn’t have guessed those would be the next words out of Theon’s mouth, coming out of nowhere like that.

“I ain’t having a go at you. You’re quick to dismiss yourself because you think being shy is some major detractor of yours. It don’t have to be. Some chicks dig shy guys. Maybe they think it’s all cute and virginal. People like all sorts of weird things.”

He shrugged his shoulders and went bouldering on. “Branny boy, sometimes I feel really sorry for you. You think of yourself here,” Theon put a hand out by their waists, “and you think of Robb and Jon as here,” he raised the hand over their heads. “Since you grew up with them, you take them as the ruler for what’s normal. Mate, _believe me_. **Everybody** feels like they’re in the shadow of those cunts. The boys in their year, in my year. Hell, Rickon’s got it better than you. He’s young enough that he doesn’t feel the pressure to compare himself. You though. You’re too young to be one of us. You’re too old not compare yourself. Shouldn’t let those hang-ups get in the way of something like Meera though. _Meera Reed_? I mean, yeah, she’s a pretty girl but so what? Pretty girls are everywhere. Meera though. She’s a laugh _and_ she’s a wildcat from what I hear. She’s not even my type, more of a tomboy than my taste. But don’t you think I wouldn’t jump at the chance if she were to ever throw a nod my way.”

He slapped Bran across the chest.

“Joking again, joking, you muppet. It’s obvious to anyone the little thing you two got on. I can see it, the two of you. It works, weirdly. Meera’s got a bit of a lesbian vibe going on but, oddly, I can see that working for you. It’s weird, innit, ‘cause honestly you’ve got a bit of a gay vibe yourself. You’d think it’d would clash but it doesn’t?!”

During Theon’s rambling, Bran’s face had frozen, nonplussed, his brow wrinkled and mouth slightly agape.

“But for reals, mate, Meera’s down. She’s buying,” Theon’s hand made a condescending little wave at Bran, “…whatever it is that you’re selling. Even your hero Blind-faced Star-Eyes would be able to see it.”

“Simeon.”

“Whatevs. She’s not made a move so it’ll be up to you. And what’s shy you gonna do? I’ll tell you: _get_ _shit-faced_.”

The spell momentarily cast over Bran broke. He rolled his eyes, standing straighter up. “That’s just your philosophy for life in general.”

“Blokes like you, it’s the only way around the matter. You’ll be an embarrassing wreck. But hopefully by that point she’ll be a right drunk mess herself so she won’t notice as much. She’ll still notice. But not as much. Trust me. It’s ugly but it works. Ideally you’d want to do better than that and be all suave and shit. But I’m gonna take a conservative bet and say that’s not going to happen.”

Bran huffed, putting space between him and Theon as he tread backwards, bumping into people. “Right. Sure. Thanks for the tips.”

“Get yourself another drink, mate,” Theon called after him, still grinning. “Then you won’t be so uptight you have to pretend I’m not right.”

 

Bran got away from Theon as fast as he could. The club was dark now and people were pushing past every which way. He hurried over to the bar. As it turned out, he _did_ want a drink, maybe several, but only to get the taste of Theon’s puffed-up rubbish out of his brain.

The rest of his brothers were by the center, Rickon as well, fiddling about with something. Bran fought his way over to them, relieved to find them.

_Don’t let him get to you. Nothing more than a pompous blighter._

Bran grunted, “Alright then,” as he joined the other Stark boys. Jon was stacking racks of glass cylinders. “What’s all this?”

Rickon was inspecting Jon’s work, patiently curious. Behind them, Robb signed a bill for the bartender.

“Arya’s birthday shots,” Jon said. He looked up and, pausing and adding, “You good?”

“Yeah. So are these all for Arya?”

“What?” Robb laughed. “These would kill Arya if she drank them all. Hell, they’d probably kill me if I drank them all. These are for everyone.” 

“Oh good.” Bran grabbed a tube out of the rack, brought it quickly to his lips and downed it one go. 

“What the—” 

It seemed bearable. Not really different from the beers besides the bitter honey taste. It was then Bran decided, since apparently the shots were weak as water, to grab another one before Jon could stop him and down that as well. 

He vaguely heard Jon sputtering, annoyed, “What— _no_ ,” snatching the rack up.

Robb demanded in back, “What in seven hells do you think you're doing?”

For some reason unknown to Bran, the shots seemed to converge and hit him, delayed, at the same time. Bran tried to maintain an air of being unaffected, like he didn’t have to recoil and gag. He could manage it. But he did shut his eyes as the initial punch washed over him.  

“Alright, slow down there, Bran the Drinker,” Robb chided from what seemed like a distance. “We haven’t even started yet. And Arya told you to watch Rickon. Rickon, you watch this one.”

Jon took four of the racks gingerly in hand, Robb taking the other three, and they paced their way back carefully to the booth. Rickon waited for Bran, watching him. 

_Theon, the great pillock. He just needs to act like he’s got everyone figured out. Got to seem like he knows everything since his father’s always going on about how he understands nothing._

_And I’m fine. There really_ _is nothing going on anymore. People can flirt. People flirt all the time. Why can’t we? It’s not some joke to everyone. He just loves making a bigger deal of things than they actually so he can feel important._

Bran felt warmth from the alcohol flush into his cheeks. He wondered if it was visible. Rickon touched his arm.

“You alright, Bran?”

“Yep.”

_No one else is even paying attention to ~~us~~ , to me. Like I’m not allowed to come out for a night out. What, I can’t celebrate my own sister’s birthday without the nattering budgies? And Meera too. She’s allowed to celebrate. We can hang out. We’re all adults. That’s right, that’s how everyone else sees it too._

“Your eyes aren’t open.”

Bran blinked his eyes open grumpily.

“Come on. Here come Arya and Sansa now.”  

 

** Midnight **

There was much commotion as Arya beamed and received everyone’s cheers, congratulations, hooting. Only she, Jon, and Sansa sat in the actual booth. Everyone else stood about. Everybody was yelling something. Bran couldn’t really tell, their voices were mixing in and out with the music.

Jon was pointing to the sugar and salt, giving Arya some advice.  

Sansa was trying to tell Rickon something, something he should be doing or something about being careful. But, same as Bran, Rickon couldn’t make it out. He kept yelling back, “WHAT?”

_The music has definitely gotten louder._

Theon appeared over Arya’s and Jon’s shoulders from behind the booth’s backing. Meera was with him, so was Gendry. He was still a bit red-faced.

Someone put one of the glass tubes in Bran’s hand. Jojen.  

“You alright, mate?”

Bran raised the cylinder in salute as an answer and went to chug it. It has only just reached his lips when Jojen blocked his arm, making some of the shot slop to the floor. “It’s alright,” he heard Jojen say to the group. “This one's just a bit excited.”

“Not yet,” Jojen explained to the side. Bran nodded, trying to blink out the annoying, spazzing lights of the club.  _Right, right, Arya first. I thought she went already_.  

There was a loud hurray, then clapping. Bran lazily clapped a bit, careful not to drop the cylinder in his fingers.

“Happy birthday, love.” Jon smiled as he and his little sister embraced. He planted a gentle peck on the side of her forehead. Sansa followed suite. Arya was laughing.

“Happy birthday,” Bran mumbled. 

“She’s not over here yet,” Jojen explained again. “How many of these have you had?”  

“What? Oh, the shots. Right.” Bran quaffed it and handed the empty glass back to Jojen.

Silently, Jojen looked across the group catching Meera’s eye. He raised his eyebrows at her, face blank, and Meera, already flushed from dancing, snickered and took to staring up at the ceiling, pretending to have not seen.

Arya stood in front of Bran now.

“Hey!” he cheered happily and leaned down to reach her better, the shortest Stark. “Happy birthday, sis,” he said, hugging her. “I love you.”

“Aww. I love you too, Bran.” 

“You’re a good sister.”

“Aww. Thank you.” Over Bran’s shoulders, Arya widened her eyes pointedly at Jojen.

“Yep. On it,” he assured her.

 

  **12:30** **AM**

Bran wanted to shake his head but knew better. His stomach teetered at the edge of sliding into the sick-drunk stage. He could feel it _almost_ beginning to roil, but he hadn’t gone that far and could still pull himself back into ‘comfortable drunk.’ He was sitting with Jojen at one of the ugly, dirty little tables closer to the front doors. The only people clustered over here were fellow clubbers who were trying to hold their insides in as they waited for the alcohol to abate, new couples awkwardly trying to hold a decipherable conversation, or men and women who were too afraid to join in the raucous laughing, dancing, and grab-assing that was taking place past the bar towards the DJ.

Jojen had been pushing water at him, which he sipped at dully, holding a beer to drink once he felt ready.

Bran raised his head to stare at the crowd grumpily. “Do I give off a gay vibe?”

Jojen pursed his lips. “Is that what’s got a bee in your bonnet? Because I think not.”

“You think too much.”                      

“Maybe you think too much.”

“Pfft. Yeah.” Bran got up, undrunk bottle forgotten, and headed towards the direction of the crowd. Jojen watched him go deciding that, after spending more than a quarter hour listening to Bran’s not entirely coherent grumpy murmurings, he was sufficiently able enough again to choose if he didn’t want Jojen babysitting him.  

Bran felt better now. He enjoyed feeling the noise and lights of the club level out around him, cushioning each moment nicely as his brain slid into sync with the din and the dark. The water Jojen had given him had helped. He was a good friend. But he was not who Bran wanted to see right now. And, coasting on the plateau of the happy stage of drunkenness, Bran sought her out.


	13. Arya's Birthday (1.5)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talisa – 28. Robb, Jon – 27. Theon – 26. Meera, Gendry – 25. Sansa – 24. Arya – 23. Bran, Jojen, – 22. Rickon, Desmera Redwyne – 18.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mood: Artic Monkeys – Do I Wanna Know. Since I love shoving music in people's faces, I made a playlist of ficspirations <https://open.spotify.com/user/patethenovice/playlist/3aOzKHxEBoFDqUFv9W0mPd> (Spotify)  
> I was gonna indiv message commenters with my thanks but then I realized messaging isn't a thing. But thank you! Take it from someone who has anxiety, you're **really, really** nice.  
>  ***Update!*** :Thank you for the nice comments, nice people! Hope peeps can see this reply. The fic is not dead. Super long delay due to: 1) a whole bunch of coinciding distractions 2) I've got 2 versions of the next chapter and been flip-flopping on which one to go with and edit. I just got past the biggest of distractions so hope to post soon (✿◠‿◠)

** 12:50  ** ** AM **

Bran dipped into the crowd where the throng was thickest. He sank through the outer layer, clearing past the elbows and hips that bumped into him.

The alcohol in the shots earlier had left a pleasant sourness on the tongue—a bite, which tingled faintly in the background. The intensity of the music’s bass was vibrating the floor. It vibrated Bran’s eardrums; its pulse buzzed over the surface of his skin. It was the sort of music Arya liked: fast, robotic, decidedly mindless.

When they had been kids still living at home, Bran would growl whenever he had been trying to concentrate on a reading and the electronic beats would come pounding through his wall, resenting how typical it was of Arya to go about her business with no thought to remembering other people were there too. And now Bran maintained that he disliked club music.

He wouldn’t jump at the chance to admit it but, here in the dark surrounded by the crowd feeding off each other’s energy, even Bran was allowing himself to be swept up, enjoying the abandon that kicked in once the music overpowered his other senses.

The up-and-coming Westerosi were grabbing out for their friends and laughing. They jumped and moved, dancing, permitting their eyes to close and their brains shut down. Flashes of red and blue punctuated the otherwise dimly glowing dark, casting the faces of strangers in and out of view. One of the faces illuminated for a flash was that of Megga. At least, Bran thought it was Megga. It was hard to tell with most of her face obscured by a boy, the one she was currently quite occupied with.

He planted his feet, ignoring the someone who smacked against his back when he stopped drifting. Bran scanned, eyes roved over the faces and hair being flipped about blindly.

 

He saw her with a southern boy. One of those southern boys who loved to wear stupid hats. This one was wearing a stupid hat. She danced with him, her back to his front, his arms reaching round to hover over her waist.

_Who wears a hat indoors? The idiot._

Bran shunted past the remaining people in between them. When he arrived, he put a calm hand on hat-boy’s upper shoulder to gently part the two. The boy’s head snapped up and Bran paid him no mind. His attention was on Meera as his hand moved to her, guiding her backwards from the boy, towards him instead.

Meera twisted her neck to peer at what was going on. Her eyes gave a little pop of surprise when they landed on him.

Then her face relaxed, a slight curve already forming at the corner of her smile. Bran liked to think that the gleam in her eyes she was giving him now was something she reserved for him. Though he had no way of knowing.

“Oi, mate,” hat-boy barked. “You got a problem?”  

“I really don’t,” Bran replied as he slid his arm around Meera’s waist and reeled her in tight against him. She kept her head twisted to the side, wanting to prolong eye contact with him for a moment longer, shooting him a glare that aspired to be affronted although it didn’t quite make it. Not with the beginnings of her smirk still there.

Meera gave up the scowl and gave in. Her slight smile grew as she wound back around with a look that combined begrudging tolerance with pleased welcome, although Bran had the inkling that the tolerance was put on for show. And even as that thought crossed his mind, her arm slid over his and firmly kept him there where he held her across her waist.

The boy, disappointed that Meera didn’t seem to be rejecting the change of events, scoffed and stormed off.

The curls of her hair brushed his jaw and tickled his neck. Her body felt soft but solid in his arms as the subtle sway of her hips brought him along with her. The earlier impression of her being clumsy when her foot had been caught under that train of girls vanished as Bran was reminded that Meera, whether or not she acted like it, was quite graceful.

He heard her speak, words hard to hear, facing away from him as she was, but he was pressed close enough to catch her voice through the din. “You’re being rather cheeky.”

The side of his face buffeted back some of her hair the best he could. In this position, it would be easier for her to hear him.

He breathed against her ear, “You like cheeky. You’re cheeky.”

She hummed noncommittally. The arm still by her side snaked upwards to reach behind her and tease the back of his neck, grazing her fingers over his skin and up to his hair.

Instinctively, Bran’s hold around her waist constricted, pinning her closer, and her grip on his arm automatically tensed to protect herself. He leaned further into the crook of her neck anyways, pillowing his cheek on her bouncy hair.

Even in the hot crush of people, the presence where she shifted against him warmed his chest. Maybe this had been a mistake. When he had gotten up from sitting with Jojen, he just wanted to find Meera, maybe to dance with her. He didn’t want to go the whole night without being a little close to her, remembering what that was like, without hearing her talk with him the way she did when they were alone, when there wasn’t a pretense.

What had that night been like, in the van? He had remembered it so many times, sometimes he wondered if he had saturated the real memory with patched-together memories, imagined details, blurred details, altered reactions. He remembered the drawstrings of her shorts. The way her arm hooked around his neck. How he collapsed on top of her, concealing his face in her hair.

But he was pushing himself much too close. The way her fingers swept lightly over the back of his neck almost made him hum.

But that would happen to anyone, with anyone, if someone brushed over them as lightly as that. Bran reminded himself that this was fine as he eased off her a little. He’d danced plenty of times with girls, other girls—girls wiggling over his crotch just like this. This was no different. And Theon was wrong about them; exes were allowed to dance—not that Theon knew they were exes. At a party, like this. It’s friendly. And they weren’t even really exes.

The music started building into a particularly resounding bass drop. When it came, Meera bent forward with it, and the curve of her ass pushed even harder up against him, and Bran almost lost himself. He almost reacted—his hands, both of them, itching to shoot out and grab the crest of her waist. As if to keep her bent over and rut into her right there in the dancehall.

What he did was stiffen—his stance, his chest, arms, cock.

Instead of her waist, Bran’s hands gripped Meera by the top of her sides, physically plunking her a few inches of empty space ahead of ahead of him.

Meera swiveled, leaving her arm around his neck like she was preforming a ballerina twirl, and now that she was facing him the arm draped behind his shoulders served as her anchor keeping him to her. She was smirking again but she did not press closer besides adjusting them into this new position, leaving the vacant space he’d made between them, for now.

A sheen of sweat glistened hotly on her collarbone and chest. Bran looked past her, feeling a bit dizzy himself in the clamminess and noise of the club.

“They say opposites attract,” she was saying. “So, I must not like cheeky people.”

He glanced down to her, considered the evil glimmer her eyes got whenever she teased him, before he returned his eye level straight ahead of him into the crowd. “That, or you’re a very, very serious person.”

Even trying not to look at her, he could mark how her grin widened.

Her arm lowered, trailed down his collar and dallied there to play with the buttons of his shirt. “Prim and proper, am I?”

Her eyes flit up playfully. They hesitated when they locked with his. He was staring at her, unsmiling. And Meera felt herself grabbed by it too, the heat.

Bran’s arm slid behind the small of her back so she wouldn’t run off.

She blinked, her eyes fluttering lower to fall where her hand had been playing with his collar. She opened her mouth for a quip to dismiss the moment but nothing came to her. Bran rummaged about for something to say too, an answer, a decision, but he couldn’t think of anything. He pulled her close all the same.

At last he managed, voice thick, “Meera…”

She chanced another glance up. His eyes were searching her. Her lips pressed tight together before parting, waiting for words.

 

** 1:50  ** ** AM **

Robb hunched over a nauseated Rickon. Rickon slouched back on the booth, head flopped backwards, propped up by the booth wall, his eyes shut. His mouth, smeared pink with the glitter from the girl’s lipstick, hung open as his breathed in overladen groans.

“Where’s Bran?” Robb asked Jon, who was standing behind him, also studying Rickon. “He was supposed to watch him.”

Jon looked up, scanning about the club. “When was the last time you saw him?” he shouted back to be heard over the music.

“What? I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since after the shots.”

Jon continued to comb over the clusters of people around them while Robb snapped his fingers over Rickon’s unresponsive, dozing face.

“Little bro? Can you hear me?”

The dirty blond hair of Jojen popped into sight as Jojen clambered past a group of people near them. Jon honed in on him immediately and called loudly over to him. Jojen seemed to have barely heard but he looked up and found them, making his way over.

“Have you seen,” changing his mind mid-sentence, Jon finished, “…Meera?”

Jojen shook his head. “I think she might have left.”

Something about his shoulders, his jaw—Jojen seemed put off. Jon decided to venture, “…Have you seen Bran?”

Again, Jojen shook his head, more slowly this time. The look he and Jon exchanged conveyed all it needed to simply by how blank they both kept their faces. They recognized in each other a mutual resignation.

“Anyways,” Jojen sighed, and he stalked onwards in the direction he had been headed.

Jon sighed too, unfolding his arms. “Ah, hell.”

Peering over his shoulder, Robb yelled, “Jon, find Bran, will you? Someone needs to sit here with Rickon until he’s better.”

Jon didn’t see any way around it. The only other person in listening proximity was Rickon, wheezing ragged breath after breath. Rickon had more pressing matters to focus on.

Hollering over the din, Jon confessed, “There’s something I haven’t told you about Bran.”

For a moment Robb ran those words over again in his head. Straightening up, he cast his blood brother a look of utmost scrutiny, unsure whether he felt more intrigued or skeptical. “What’s that?”

“There’s something I haven’t told you. It’s a bit of a secret.”

Robb kept a straight face, save for his eyes, which lit up. “What? A secret? Is it a good one?” Jon gave a shrug of his shoulders to play it off, not committing either way. Robb rubbed his hands together, energy recharging fast. “Go on, spit it out.”

“Alright,” Jon allowed as Robb stood closer, leaning his ear towards Jon. “But you have to promise not to say anything. Bran made me promise not to tell anyone. He specifically said, ‘not even Robb.’”

The irony of it brought a grin to Robb’s face. For a brief moment he weighed respect for Bran’s privacy in his mind. But it was quickly thrown to the wayside; he was too curious now. “Okay,” he promised.

Jon tipped closer. “Bran slept with Meera.”

“… _What?_ ”

Jon gave him a return nod, eyebrows raised knowingly.

“When did this happen?”

“A few years ago. When we went on holiday to the Fingers.”

“What?! How did you—did you… _see_?”

“No, no. I just sort of…well, I opened up the car one day and found his wallet there. Right next to a condom wrapper.”

“ _No_. And he confirmed it?”

“Mhmm.”

“Gods be good…Wait, the car? Where did you see this?”

“About where you were sitting tonight.”

“Nooo.” Robb raked his hands over his face. “Our car, our poor car. I swear, that boy…”

Jon tried not to give in and grin himself. He waved his hand at Robb’s dismay, wafting it away. “This was years ago. It’s been washed since then.”

“And you’ve known all this time. You didn’t tell _me_?”

“Well, I don’t think they were sleeping together all this time.”

Robb’s brow furrowed as he tried to put the pieces together in his head. “Why are you telling me now?”

Jon stepped in again so he could lower his voice. “I think they just left together.”

“ **WHAT**?” Robb spun his head from side to side as he hunted for a glimpse of either of them. “They left together from here? Here?? Oh, he is really _is_ touched in the head. And he didn’t even say anything. He didn’t, did he?”

“Not to me.”

“We could have been worried.”

Jon shook his head to spring his hair out of his face, using a hand to finish the job, ruffling it back all the way. “I know. He was pretty drunk though.”

“Well, if they have—it’s not like we can keep it a secret, is it?” Jon shrugged at him. Robb went on, “I mean, I know everyone’s drunk, but I think the others are bound to count the number of Starks in the car eventually.”

“What, are you talking about Bran?” Sansa had appeared behind Robb, squeezing in between Robb and the booth to peer closely at the unconscious Rickon.

Jon asked, “You saw?”

Sansa was still focused on Rickon as she brushed his hair out of his face and tucked it back. “Well, it wasn’t that hidden,” she said, none-too-concerned.

“Gods be good,” Robb grumbled in an undertone. “What’s the point of him trying to keep it a secret when he’s just going to do that?”

“Well, why did you let him get so drunk?” Sansa asked as she turned to face them both.

“What? Us?”

“Yes, you. Arya told Bran to look after Rickon. Why weren’t you looking after Bran? I was trying to but I got distracted with Rickon and then by Jeyne and the others.”

Robb asked in indignation, gesticulating defensively, “Why does Bran need looking after?? He’s already a man grown. It’s only Rickon we were supposed to look after. And look at him.”

All three of them looked down at Rickon, his mouth still sagged open, occasionally hiccupping or coughing in a way which threatened he might get sick.

“Yes, well,” Sansa mumbled as she picked up a napkin, wet it with some of the water, and wiped at the glitter on Rickon’s chin, “That’s everyone’s fault. Obviously Bran wasn’t going to watch him if he was that far gone himself.”

“That’s _Theon_ ’s fault,” Jon corrected. “Theon was the one messing with Rickon.”

“What were Bran and Meera doing exactly?” asked Robb, annoyed.

She shrugged, clearly much less ruffled than the boys. “Just making out. Nothing horribly disgraceful. A lot less than some of the other stuff going on here,” Sansa said with a vague gesture at the surroundings. “I take it they’ve left, though?” Taking Jon’s weary shake of his head as confirmation, she turned to Robb. “Do you need me to watch after Rickon?”

Robb groaned, “No,” slackening in a resigned stance with his arms crossed. “We’ll do it. Go have fun.”

Sansa kissed Robb on the cheek, and with a motherly pat under his jaw, she said, “Everybody gets one.”

She shook her head sympathetically at Jon before disappearing. Robb turned to Jon. “Does she mean by that that this is Bran’s one mistake or mine?”

“Probably both.”

Robb glanced down to where Rickon was passed out on the booth beneath them. “What is it about being a younger child that makes them so permanently thick?”

“Ahoy ahoy,” came Theon’s bright voice. They looked up to see him gambol over, toting a glass with the pale green of liquors from Essos. He was sporting a broad grin and a spring in each step. “Wait ‘till you hear, wait ‘till you _hear_.” He reached them and took a swig before continuing, “Did you see? Did you see Little B.?”

“Bran?” Robb frowned. “Have you seen him?”

“Ohh. I seen him alright.”

“Where is he?”

“Now? Huh.” Theon flicked his wrist, pretending to study his watch. “Let’s see. It’s almost 2:00. So I would say he’s probably nose-diving right into that Meerish swamp.”

Jon gagged. “ _Bleugh_. What is the matter with you?”

Robb’s eyes closed as he moved to massage what looked like a headache from his brow.

Theon raised his eyebrows, waiting for one of them to join him grinning. “So you know, right? You know about it?”

“That’s just gross,” Robb said from behind his hand.

Theon slumped his shoulders forward, rolling his eyes. “Ohh, come on. Will you two maidens grow up? Bran’s been spending all his time at theirs for years. You’ve had to have known he was fucking one of them Reed kids.”

Robb brandished a finger at Theon, an actual flush spreading up his neck. “You cut it out.”

“Little bugger owes it to me as well. Did you see him? I told him. I told him the only way he’d man up to take a crack at her is if he was piss drunk. I forgot to mention not to go _too_ hard and overdo it, alcohol-wise. Hopefully his boon won’t end up being his anchor, if you know what I mean…” Theon trailed off into his glass before he washed down the rest of his drink, “which I know you two do.”

“Yes, yes,” Jon said grudgingly. “It’s all very exciting. Let’s move on now, shall we?”

“Move on? Fuck that.” Theon laughed. “This is hilarious. He gets proper worked up about it. The blushing bride. He’ll go absolutely, er, _starkers_ —shall I say—when he sees I got me a lil’ snapshot. I already sent it to Pimp’s Landing. Let me find it again.” Theon pulled out his phone, almost rocking with glee.

Pimp’s Landing was the group chat among the three of them. Oddly enough, it had been Jon who had given the group its current name, during one of his lighter moods. There were other group chats Theon could send that picture to, if he truly did have one. Worse groups.

Jon was stewing, chest inflating. Before he could do anything else, Robb asked, “You got a picture of them?”

“You bet your Northern ass I did.” Theon was flipping through his phone to find it.

Jon’s eyes darted from the phone to Robb. Robb threw him a lazy nod to tell him it was taken care of.

“Comeee off it,” Robb goaded Theon, nudging him with an elbow. “You’ve got a picture of two random people, maybe who vaguely look like them. There’s no way Bran and Meera would ever hook up, she’s not his type. And he’s not hers, either.”

“Believe it, mate. Here,” Theon said, presenting the phone’s screen to Robb as he passed it to him. “ **Behold**. A sweaty, grope-y alliance to make your dad proud.” As Robb swiped his fingers over the phone, Theon gloated happily, “I ought to charge the little div a photography fee. Artists need to be paid. And this is art I’ve made here, people. What should I title it? Perhaps ‘Yikes.’ Or ‘Do Anything for a Friend, Especially If It’s His Sister: The Brandon Stark Story.’”

“There you go,” Robb said, handing the phone back. “Deleted.”

“Lads, I tell you—” Theon froze, his arm postured in the air like an instructor. “You _what_?”

“Don’t take creeper shots of people at the club, you ass.”

“ _You_ deleted _my art_?!” Theon sputtered, eyes wide and then narrow again, livid.

Jon watched cheerfully as Robb and Theon began to get into it. Through the tumult and their bickering, he heard Rickon groan down below. “How you doing?” he asked, bending low.

“‘M fine.” Rickon opened and closed his eyes with much effort.

“Can you drink a bit of water?”

“Mgrgh.”

Jon plucked a bottle of water off the table, removed the cap, and placed it in his brother’s hand. Rickon took a sip. He mumbled a thanks as he closed his eyes again.

“That’s _my_ phone. You’ve no right to mess with my phone!”

“How about that’s my brother and you’ve no right to mess with him?”

“Where do you get off? It’s only a picture. And besides, I was doing _your_ job.”

“My—my what?”

“You’re his brother, not me. You two just leave him out, high and dry, being all pathetic. One conversation from his Uncle Theon and the gormless lil’ shit’s already in there an hour later. You think you coulda done that for your own brother? You ought to be thanking me.”

“Thanking you? You leave Bran alone, and Rickon. Look at Rickon. Look at the state of him. You knew we wanted to ease him into nightclubbing and you went ahead and gave him liquor he can’t handle and chucked him in the deep end.”

Theon waggled his head, frustrated he had to explain everything to simpletons. “You learn to swim by being thrown in the deep end, not by observing the ocean from the sidelines for your entire life. At least I’m nice enough to give ‘em a real hand. Without Uncle Theon, Bran’s dick would get about as much use as an Unsullied’s.”

As much as Jon liked seeing Robb have a go at Theon on the rare occasions Theon had pissed him off enough, the public scrutiny over Bran’s not-so-secret tryst felt like a mini-betrayal. He spoke up, “Leave it, everyone. So they left. Leave it alone.”

“He’s had the horn for her for years and where were you two? Doing jack shit. And then you delete my art,” Theon muttered. “Uptight fuckers can’t take a joke.”

Robb had been turning to check on Rickon once more but he whipped back around. “I’m telling you, lay off of Bran. Don’t tease him about this.”

“How about,” Theon said, starting to giggle, “I lay off Bran if he lays off Meera? Which means I at _least_ get to have a go at him tonight because he is going to be,” Theon started smacking at a phantom ass in front of him, “laying that on all—”

“Alright—” Robb started angrily, taking a step towards Theon. But they all froze, heads turning down towards Rickon as he lurched forward and retched.


	14. Arya's Birthday (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You might say there was a bit of a delay on this chapter. There are a myriad of reasons why (academically known as a ‘shit-ton’). I’ll save my whinging for tumblr. I will say though that I had already written out most of the first part of the story. Now I'm at the latter half which is more randomly scribbled chunks arranged around an outline. So most like I’ll adopt a more GRRM-style pace.  
> (My tone sounds normal but really I rewrote and rewrote this part, changing my mind 6 or 50 times about what I wanted it to be, that this chapter took years off my life and I'm posting it just to be free from this pain. I want to be a free elf.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talisa – 28. Robb, Jon – 27. Theon – 26. Meera, Gendry – 25. Sansa – 24. Arya – 22/23. Bran, Jojen, – 22. Rickon, Desmera Redwyne – 18.  
> Mood: ~~Me, pateofthecitadel, embracing death~~ Kevin Garrett – Coloring; Seafret – Oceans

**1:20 AM**

They behaved themselves in the cab.

They had squeezed their way out from the heat and noise of the club to stumble into cool night air. A few others, tired by now, loitered about the sidewalk even as more people were steadily arriving and adding themselves to the queue.  Bran and Meera muddled past the crowd onto the street to the small swarm of taxis, come to take up the only remaining supply of customers this time of night.

They climbed into the closest car, made drafty by the cracked driver’s window, through which the driver was having himself a smoke. Upon listening to Bran’s directions, he gave a stiff nod and made to finish the cigarette. When the last of the tobacco had been burned, he flicked the butt out onto the street, fired up the ignition, and they drove off.

Bran and Meera settled into the backseat, each slumped against their own window with all the intention of keeping their hands to themselves. Bran took to gazing out at the buildings as they slipped by.

Once clear of Cobbler’s Square and its rowdy late-night patrons, the noise level of the city dropped off. Two or three streets passed, and Bran had already begun to come down from the clubbing’s frenzy. Lulled by the sway of the taxi, the hush of the surrounding streets, he drifted until movement in the corner of his vision caught his eye. Hunched by the other window, Meera was rubbing her arms up and down.

Bran looked to his knees as he made some split-second calculations but shortly gave it up as a bad job. Calculations concerning Meera could devolve into a trap. Apart from devotion to her brother, the only thing certain about Meera was that nothing was certain about her. And Bran had long since given up trying to figure it out.

He proceeded to inch across the seat. While his attention innocently shifted from his window to hers, he snuck an inconspicuous arm around her shoulders.

Meera watched him with a private smile in silence. She must have decided she approved, for then she leaned into his warmth.

They made polite chitchat to while away the ride. As the conversation steered towards everyone else who had come out for tonight, their forced demeanor of formality dissolved. Among the two of them, they had a laugh which was only marginally guilty poking fun at the others. Rickon—worked up. Arya—exulting in the flood of attention and affection. Jojen, with his unique brand of dispassionate annoyance. And of course Gendry. Poor Gendry.

The cabbie ignored them. Half of his customers on weekend nights were couples, leaving some party or another. The polite ones respectfully pretended not to be mere seconds away from shagging. And the not-so-polite ones got working on a head start during the ride home.

 

They took the elevator up to the eleventh floor. Bran unlocked his door and held it open for her. Meera sidled up next to him by the doorframe. She leaned forward to poke her head inside before crossing over the threshold. Her step was light, as though not wanting to be overheard.

Bran threw his keys onto the table by the entrance Catelyn had set there for his mail. Meera kicked off her heels and gave an almighty sigh of relief.

They had stepped into Bran’s kitchen. No walls blocked it from the rest of the main room, its only demarcation being a switch from wooden floor to carpet. Past the kitchen and the narrow side-hall that led to the closets and bathroom, the apartment opened up into a space which was comfortable to come home to. The flat was divided down the center by the slightly worn sofa once belonging to Jon. Its only other room was his bedroom, behind the closed door on the wall opposite.

Other highborn Westerosi would have considered his place small, even shabby perhaps. But he liked it. Anything bigger would be a hassle. And Northerners did not turn to maid service as readily as their southerner counterparts.

 

He moved on routine, securing the door, shuffling out of his shoes. The apartment lost the hallway’s florescent light and the only source now came from the street lamps’ faint glow through the windows, blinds not drawn.

Meera had made her way past the kitchen and, an air of polite caution about her, began to explore. She stared at anything and everything as though fascinated by the tiny details of his place, her fingers grazing across whatever she passed.

The wispy top she had chosen for tonight covered very little of her back. Light caught on the small planes of her shoulder blades above the top’s scooped neckline. The blouse ended early as well, leaving the small of her back in plain view.

Bran recalled that when they had vacationed at The Fingers, her skin was kissed by sun, dappled with freckles. It wasn’t bright enough now to see if those freckles were still there.

She murmured in a small voice that nevertheless carried through the quiet, “I like your place.”

“Thanks.”

With some effort, Bran moved his eyes away from her waist, instead bowing his head at the ground. He considered his feet in their grey socks, twiddled them idly as he gave Meera the space to acclimate to this new setting.

He stowed his hands into the pockets of his jeans, hoping vaguely that his face resembled something of an indifferent expression. He was pretty sure that somewhere he had heard stoicism was what most people found attractive in men. Stoicism and confidence.

_I have to be as confident as Robb._

The fact that the two of them were alone, not a single sibling lurking behind the corner, struck Bran as if it had happened in a sudden flash. As if they had not been traveling here for the past fifteen minutes.

He looked up. Meera was watching him with mild curiosity, her dark eyes narrowed in a hint of that trademark, brassy grin. The grin spread, and she seemed unable to stop the blush that came with it, so she grinned at the floor instead. “This is my first time seeing your place.”

“Yeah, I guess it is.”

Her grin morphed into something of a benign smile, though Bran did not trust that either.

“I like it.”

“Thanks.”

Something was amusing her, clearly. “Don’t you think you’re being rather rude? A poor host?”

“What?”

“This is my first time seeing your place.” As she spoke, she tucked her hands behind her back, achieving a false demure quality. Her eyes flicked up ever so slightly to just catch him in her eyeline. “You haven’t offered me a tour.”

“There’s only one other room.”

She tilted her head skeptically. “How can I believe that if I haven’t seen it?”

His bearing of manly stoicism threatened to crack under her teasing. He liked her teasing.

His heart was pounding a little more insistently within his chest. Bran gave himself one more moment. One second more to soak in the sight of her, standing innocently in his flat, bestowing upon him her most angelic and most evil grin.

He pushed off from the wall. Meera’s eyes tracked him and did not stray. As he passed her, his hand reached out for hers and she gave it to him. He led them to the far wall, into his room.

He sent Meera unceremoniously forth with a broad sweep of his arm, himself wheeling about to close the door behind them. He was moving on autopilot, his body had kept up but his mind had lagged and fallen behind.

 _I have to be as confident as Robb._ But Robb would know what he was doing.

 

He had only turned halfway round when a small shove sent him backwards. His back thudded up against the door. Bran repressed a startled laugh as Meera stretched to lean his face down to hers, into her kiss.

She kissed him, already deep and familiar. And he let her, his arms wrapping around her, holding her against him. Meera had dispensed with bothering to keep her touch gentle. And as heat rose in him kissing her back, he did the same.

He leaned more, made her bend more. And her hands gripped him—ran up his arms, pushed up to the nape of his neck into his hair, gripping and releasing.

It was dark in his room. It may have been that they had not found themselves in such total privacy since that night nearly seven years ago. When, as teenagers, Meera had turned her eyes on Bran and seen him in a different light. That was the night of his first kiss.

They were not teenagers now. And for their first time being truly alone together after all those years, it was not what one might call ‘special.’ There was a hastiness to their movements, over-sharp. Where the pretense of normalcy fell away, a hunger built, rapidly growing in shamelessness.

Bran felt a burning in the back of his throat. In his gut, through his fingers. For Meera. And Meera was everywhere. Mouth hot on his, hands raking over him. Real and solid, clutching him to her. He cradled her neck, wanting to steady her, needing easier access to rediscover that funny, sweet mouth of hers.

Bran was inundated with left over shades of smoke and alcohol which clung about her thick halo of curls. Under that though remained a trace of her shampoo. And of something else. Something reminiscent of Howland Reed’s house in King’s Landing. Of grass, and minty chapstick. And something ineffable. Soft and holy. Unique to Meera’s warmth and to her skin.

Her scent, her taste. How it had been those precious few times he had moved his face over her neck or down her legs. The way she moved her tongue, her hands. She flooded his senses, making him dizzy. This was perfect. _This_ was how they should have been spending all their time. They should never stop.

Meera squirmed free and took a step back. She snatched at his shirt, attempting to undo the line of buttons, fumbling a little in her impatience. Bran breathed heavy as the dark green shirt he had deliberated on so diligently was slung onto the floor. It was difficult to focus; his eyes kept closing of their own accord, reopening with delay.

She grabbed a fistful of the white t-shirt he still wore and, with more force than he would have expected from someone her size, pulled. He went. They stumbled further into the room, inelegant, stopping when Meera backed into the bedframe.

He’d been through this before with her. This time though he did not need to look away, and he regained his breath.

After all that came before, the way she closed the space between them now was markedly slow. His eyes fell shut when her lips brushed under his, gentle, maybe even shy. Her tongue coaxed him forth, showed him how to seek after her. Oblivious to everything outside the kiss, they tipped aimlessly, Bran leaning, Meera falling, and landed on the bed.

The mattress was forgiving and gave way to their movements. Meera maneuvered higher, Bran followed. Propped mostly on his own elbows, he settled above her. But even at the controlled weight, she adjusted with a breathy grunt.

Past her chin, past her jaw, he pressed his lips to the curve of her neck. Meera was salty with sweat from dancing. It was good, and he wanted more of it, tongue and teeth moving over her. Her legs wrapped around him, squeezing. Her body grinded against his and the sensation vexed him with want. He bit down, sucking hard at a point on her neck in a bout of petulance. Nails dug into his arms as there was a sharp intake of breath underneath him.

Her back arched, chest pushed up. His cock gave a jump inside his jeans, against her thigh, growing hard fast. Too fast. Her hands were in his hair. It was becoming more and more blurred where he was and what was happening.

He groaned. Her arm hooked around his neck. They locked together, close.

Her body tensed, as if with a slight convulsion. She expelled a quick noise, sharper than before. Bran stilled, not sure if he had imagined it. Meera had stilled as well. Her softness now rigid.

She whispered, “Wait.”

He waited. Neither one of them moved.

Her hands had a grip on his shoulders. Again she said, “Wait, wait.”

Bran leaned onto an arm, the better to see, and breathed, “Okay.”

Her eyes went wide. They caught more light than most everything else in the unlit room.

She lumbered away to the side and reeled up to sit at the edge of the bed, her back to him.

Bran did nothing but sit blankly for a few seconds, still dazed and short of breath. He snapped out of it though when Meera buried her face in her hands. He remembered where they were, how they had gotten here, and everything that had led up to this moment all the way back to camp. And how Meera had made a game of it, kissing him in his cabin, but only when Jojen wouldn’t see.

_Oh._

He swallowed in an inadvertent attempt to douse the heat which had risen inside his chest. The air traveled down uncomfortably, chafing his throat.

Voice dry, he broke the silence by saying, “It’s okay. It’s okay, Meera.”

“I’m sorry.”

Her words were muffled by her hands.

He had half-expected this in the back of his brain. Of course it wasn’t going to happen. Why should it when she had already explained as much? And now that they were here, Bran forgot exactly what he had been playing at. Meera may have recently moved to The Reach. It made her no less of the family friend she had always been, and none of their circumstances had changed.

He wouldn’t have done it, had it not been for Theon. Theon, and all that nonsense he had been spewing. Insecurities in his head. Assuring Bran that _he_ could read the situation better.

But it was Bran who had been willing to believe him.

Could he really have been so desperate that he would listen to Theon? Desperate enough to construe Meera’s play as intent? He wished he had avoided her all night. He could be back at The Nightfort, in the noise and the damp, drinking with Rickon.

He wished she’d pull him down on top of her. He could strip her of those annoying clothes. She’d hold onto him and let him find her again, open her again. Feel her once more at long last. Hear her quiet moans, feel her welcome him.

He wished she had left him alone, that she had never plagued him with this. His first kiss could have been with one of the classmates and he would be blissfully free of want for her. Not stuck in inadequacy.

“This happens. Don’t worry. Meera, it’s fine. It’s normal.”

She shook her head which made her arms swing side to side. “Not with me. I don’t know what’s going on with me. I’m more responsible than this.”

“What are you talking about? Responsible?” He watched as she slid her hands over her hair until clamping a chunk at the back. “Meera, I’m glad you said something.”

“You are?”

“ **Yes**. You and I are friends. Of course I’d want you to tell me if you’re having second thoughts. Just like I think you’d want me to tell you. If…If you didn’t say anything and I…I became a regret of yours—” She closed her eyes with a sigh. “It’s good you said something. And nothing happened, it’s okay.” He pressed his lips tight together. He wasn’t sure why, but those words in particular had stung. “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.”

She smiled grimly and mumbled, “I’m not. I wish that I were.” The forced smile went away. “But I’m not. I let myself get away with everything.”

Bran stared. “Meera? What is it?” When she stifled an over-noisy breath, he veered off the bed. He sped over to her, crouching beside her knees.

In a small voice, she whispered, “I don’t like it—how I treat you. I’m flippant with you.”

“Meera. Changing your mind about sex is not flippant. And it’s got naught to do with responsibility. You _are_ responsible.”

She made a bleak laugh as she said, “No.” Not looking at him, she went on, “A responsible person isn’t the type who would drag a fifteen-year old out into the wilderness, into gods only know what. Just ‘cause they were bored. And a responsible type certainly wouldn’t try to pull them, have a snog with them, before he could even know what was happening.”

Blinking, he asked, “Is _that_ what’s bothering you?” he asked, blinking. His jaw tight, Bran said in a flat tone, “What are you getting at? It’s not that you just don’t like this,” he gestured vaguely at the space between them. “It’s that you think it’s _irresponsible_?” She didn’t answer, only rubbed the back of her neck. “Meera. If you’re having second thoughts, if you realize you don’t want to be here, I want you to tell me. I’m glad you told me. But why are you talking about responsibility?” He chewed his words before finishing, “I don’t need you to patronize me.”

She opened her mouth to argue. “That’s not—”

“I knew what was happening, Meera. And right now I’m for whatever you want to do. Go home, go back to the club. You could crash here too, if you want, I could take the couch. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve slept on it. But there’s nothing irresponsible about two teenagers making out some odd years ago. And there’s nothing irresponsible now, either. I just…” His voice trailed away.

Meera said nothing while she stared at him.

Bran was uncomfortably aware of how his concluding words hung in the air. He wished she would say something, even a cold goodbye, at least it would fill the silence.

Tentatively, she asked, “So…what did you think would happen? After tonight?”

Bran ran a hand through his hair. “Nothing. Meera, I know what you said. I agree, we shouldn’t complicate things, you know, jeopardize our friendship. I didn’t mean anything by it, I don’t know why…I didn’t mean to make a move on you tonight. It just…sort of…”

Back in the club, the club where it was so loud you couldn’t hear your own thoughts, she had stood close, arm-in-arm. They chatted, she threw her head back with laughter. His nerves prickled where she touched him, where she bumped up against him, pushed by the crowd. Face flushed, her body snug and tight in that leather. The dark and the din making him feel invisible, making him feel free.

His voice had shrunk into a pathetic sound recalling it—fancies of sexual prowess. So Bran rose, not wanting Meera to gaze down on him with pity. “The club was just so—and I was…” His eyes darted to those leather trousers. “And you wore those stupid trousers—I should’ve left things alone. I’m sorry.”

She nearly grinned when he cursed at her trousers but held back out of courtesy. He could see her turning his words over in her head. She squinted at him curiously and asked, “When did you sleep on your couch?”

Expecting something more grave, he made a little sigh of relief.

“Sansa stayed here once. Her building was having the windows redone so she stayed here. I’m closer to her work than our parents’ house. And she booted me out of my room.”

Meera turned back to her knees with the shadow of a smile on her face.

Her voice was low as she said, “You didn’t do anything tonight that I didn’t respond to. I picked my outfit with you in mind.”

Bran forgot to close his mouth. He looked like a confused statue. Her eyes roved back to his and on automatic response his heart drummed a little faster.

“I told myself I wasn’t going to bother you. That was my commitment to good behavior. But still, I pictured…I pictured you coming over to me. And when you did, I…”

There were only one or two steps between Bran and where Meera was sat. She stood.

Bran shuffled back. His hands shot up to hover weirdly before his belt, as though in danger of Meera attacking his belt loops.

Shaking her head with a slight shrug, she said quietly, “I was…I had it wrong. I thought we weren’t on the same page. I don’t—” Whatever that thought was going to be, she angrily swatted it away and continued, “But anyways…nothing would change.”

His face flushed with heat. And the heat was outside him, pooling between them.

“Are you saying you—”

“I want to stay. What do you want?”

“What do I—? What I’ve wanted has remained…consistent.” His tore his gaze away from her mouth back to face her. “I want what you want.”

 

Their brown eyes matched in the dark. She extended a careful arm towards him.

Her hand was below his shoulder. She smoothed it up and down, feeling him near the collar of his shirt. She must have liked that part of him, her hands always gravitated there. Her hand traveled up to massage the back of his neck. She held the moment.

Gradually, his breathing calmed. He might have said her name. But the word came so quiet that Meera saw more than heard it. Aligning her face with his, she made the small hint of a nod. Bran was bending, guided. And the kiss she gave him was so patient and delicate that it pained him.

The bite of rejection that had flared a moment ago melted in her glow. And all his wounds and woes seemed to melt. At least here, in this hallowed space she could create where she was all that existed.

This time, Meera made it so that it was Bran who lay down first. He had barely lowered onto his bed when she was already climbing on top of him, and so he had to labor to drag them up higher. Straddling his lap, she brought his face back to hers. Her kisses were sweet, almost apologetic. He reached for her too—his hands slid up from the small of her back, below the satin, towards the small lines of her shoulders. Beneath his fingers, her skin was impossibly smooth, delightfully warm.

Whenever they broke apart, she drew in half a breath before she rushed back. He heard, as if breathed into his ears again, sudden memories of soft, sweet noises she made those few years ago. When she bared something of herself to him, quaked beneath him as they came together in that cramped SUV.

Bran groaned and gripped her by the infuriatingly lovely shape of her ass, that shape her awful trousers loved to flaunt. He felt weight where she sat astride him and friction as his cock stiffened harder still. The drag of her trousers grinding on his length was growing rough, difficult.

She kissed him, hot, hasty, and then again. Her grip—too sharp. Her teeth grazed over his lips too fast. And he returned the same desperation, the same clumsiness.

Meera shifted on his lap and he couldn’t help the hiss that escaped him. His knee jerked as if to buck up but was restrained by the span of her thighs. The pressure of her position, the unforgiving denim of his jeans, it all pinched. But he pulled her tighter onto him all the same.

Experimentally, she rocked against him, and he groaned. She did it again, explicitly carnal, and they both groaned.

Meera was flushed, panting slightly. She paused to gaze at him for a moment, likewise out of breath. A smirk crept across her face. The light in her eyes brimmed with unadulterated excitement, which prompted in Bran an uncanny mix of thrill and anxiety.

He looked down as he realized, with slight delay, Meera was trying to maneuver his t-shirt up. With a hand he reached behind to his back and seized hold of it, tugged up, and threw it off haphazardly, earning him an approving kiss from Meera, still smirking.

She nudged him further back with the merest flash of a wink before she hopped off the bed. Bran went to follow but she caught him by the shoulder and pushed him back down. Her hand trailed down from his shoulder all the way to where she found his belt.

Unseen by Meera (who was paying his upper half not a bit of attention) he swallowed while she busied herself with unfastening the clasp on his belt, the buttons of his jeans, the zipper.

He had the simultaneous impressions of his mind racing and of his mind blank. It was very disorientating.

Meera tugged and his jeans began to reluctantly go with her. He was breathing quite loudly by now.

She discarded his trousers to the floor, yanked his socks off along with them with the slightest hint of teasing. He was left with only his boxers, well tented.

The sight of her delightedly vaulting back over him, brushing her lips on his hip, over the skin that dipped beneath his boxers’ waistband, her bouncy hair flopping about—it sunk into his chest with unexpected weight. This was something affectionate. And deeply personal.

_What did you think would happen? After tonight?_

_I told myself I wasn’t going to bother you._

He had a good idea of what she was doing. It was something he had thought about sometimes, maybe often, lying in bed waiting for sleep after all other distractions of the day had been exhausted. And as the night grew darker and he grew tireder, his defenses fell away. The heavy eyelids of Meera’s would appear in the dark and empty privacy of his mind. She would lift them up to him, her mouth grinning, before she’d turn down to take him in with a hungry moan.

His toes curled.

 _That_ was a fantasy. Just a random, little nothing-thought that couldn’t be helped. But this, Bran suddenly decided, was too intimate. If they had established they were friends, even friends who occasionally fucked each other, that was all well and fine. But this he would not share with a friend, this he would only lay bare with a girlfriend.

One of his knees sprung up, startling her. He rolled them over, using his weight to pin her beneath him. He caught a glimpse of her puzzled face before he opened her mouth with his own, kissing her deep and insistent. Her momentary stiffness abated. He could taste it as she began to smile against him.

“Didn’t get to do this in the van, did ya?” she teased with a cheeky grin.

“You are unbelievable.”

He moved down her. His mouth feigned nipping at the side of her neck as she wriggled pleasantly beneath him, laughing and pushing him away. He kissed her neck softly then, and her pushing turned to gripping. His lips trailed lower, to the flat plane down the center of her chest. He could dally there but he had a more pressing ambitions.

Much like she had, he bound off the bed. He undid the side zipper on those stupid trousers he couldn’t wait to get rid of. And flattering as they were, they were a bitch to peel off her. Relinquishing, she angled her hips up to help and he managed to shimmy the clingy material down and off.

He took one second to admire how slight and smooth the purple lace of her pants looked across her hips. The mere breeze of a fabric.

Bran seized her around the waist and dragged her towards him until the edge of the bed, until her legs fell unsupported on either side of him. She made a surprised peep and grabbed the blanket to steady herself, leaning onto her elbows to frown reproachfully at him.

Her knee went to cover herself but, already bending, he smoothed it back, and crouched until kneeling before her.

Her hand wafted about to slow him in the name of modesty. He gave her an unconcerned look, not delayed at all by the vague flutters of her hand, as he hooked his fingers around delicate lace. He glided it down from her hips, her thighs, past the crook of her knees and finally let them fall from her ankles.

She was biting her lip, holding herself up so she could see his face. He gave her one more affectionate smile.

There was a quick, shy noise from Meera as his arms pushed her thighs apart and wrapped themselves around her legs. He lowered himself onto her, seeking out the wetness hidden there.

He made a small involuntary noise of pleasure when his mouth opened to her, licking and kissing slowly. He traced over her peaks and folds, brushed her soft flesh with his lips and nose. He heard the initial sharp intake of breath, and he was aware of whines and whimpers that followed, but it was taste that blanketed over his brain now.

He had never tasted her like this. And Meera tasted sharp, like wine, with a slippery richness. He may not be a fan of southern wines, but he was a fan of this, lapping at her, and he pushed her legs further apart to pull her closer, nose brushing up against her clit.

Her hand gripped and released his hair. She was breathing out unintelligible non-words. And his name. When he used the flat of his tongue, she breathed out his name, in repetition, groaned and let her head fall back.

He had to see, he wanted to see. Bran pulled up, taking in how she looked as he gulped down much needed air. Her eyes were closed. One of her hands had reached out to the side to grasp for anything and had settled for grasping the blanket.

He leaned forward to press a gentle kiss on her hip and his hand went below. A finger pushed into her flush heat, his thumb circled over her clit.

Meera made a small gasp, cursing, and coiled inward. Breathless, she said, “Wait.”

He looked to her, lips swollen, his hand settling over her thigh. It took her quite some effort to sit up, splayed and out of breath as she was. She managed to push herself up on her arms.

“Bran.”

“Yeah?”

Her voice was barely audible. “You. I want you.” Her arm reached out, wanting him to follow it up on the bed.

He wasn’t sure why, after yearning for this for so long, his chest tightened in a spasm of trepidation.

She whispered, having never sounded more earnest, “Please. I want you.”

He started a sentence, “I—” for no reason, having no sentence to say.

He glanced at his dresser, where he stored a box of condoms. Bran had a hand on the bed to steady himself. Meera’s hand fell over it.

“We don’t need it,” she said. “It’s up to you.”

Bran swallowed and nodded, but still he did not rise to stand.

Seeing his expression, she sat up and brought their heads together until her brow tilted on his. He breathed in deep, and let her soothe his nerves.

“I want you,” she whispered again. “I want you so much.”

Brow still pressed to hers, he nodded, faster, eyes closed. It was with a feeling of lightheadedness that he got back onto his feet.

In the dim light from outside, he saw Meera retreating further back on the bed. It would have been better to resist the act of shyness, but in the end it didn’t matter so much, and he turned his back as with slightly shaking hands he removed his boxers. There was a rustle behind him as Meera’s blouse went swishing onto the dresser.

_I know you got all shy after your little tour in the hospital...You think being shy is some major detractor. It don’t have to be._

_It’s obvious to anyone the little thing you two got on._

He twisted back around to her, determined.

And there she was, waiting for him. Her dark eyes wide and trusting.

‘ _We’ve never been naked together_ ,’ he thought dully, climbing onto the bed, crawling over her as she lay down.

She had a hand on his arm. Her touch was sweet. And he reminded himself that he was a man grown, and not afraid. He shifted lower and the skin of his chest pressed against the skin of hers, and he groaned. All of her was there with all of him. He hadn’t even entered her yet and already he had to suppress an urge to curse or thank all the gods, whichever made more sense.

He braced himself on the bed and Meera spread her thighs apart to help guide him to where he needed to be. They shared a quick glance. Bran gave her half a smile out of commiseration for taking so long. Then he righted himself, edged his hips just the right way. His cock pressed up against where she was already ripe and silky warm, and he eased into her.

His heart pounded and he felt his blood rush. Slow, he pushed himself forward, deeper into her. His eyes fell shut as the heat and pressure of Meera eclipsed him, every inch of him—body, mind, all.

With the last remaining barrier gone, any fear of being naked, of being over exposed, faded with it. Meera breathed his name onto the crook of his neck. The feel of her writhing beneath him, of her hot and warm around him, of her arms clinging to him frantically, made him groan, dizzy with need, and he thrust back into her much harder than he meant to, causing her to buck against him with a pained gasp.

She was panting, a slight tremor in her voice, hands grasping at his back. He shoved his cock back into her, back and forth in long strokes, losing himself in it.

Meera threw her head back, bit her lip. Bran opened his eyes to stare, fascinated. Her lips fell open to gasp out incoherent slurs. Curse, and moan. Moan his name.

_God, I needed this. I missed you._

His head spun, but he couldn’t stop. Bran moved his mouth back to hers. Though he took her by surprise, she was quick to kiss him back. He could feel—her mouth, her cunt, all through her body wrapped around his—the way she ached with want for him. He made a choked sound and dipped his head beside her, bearing down on her.

She urged him on with words half unsaid, half whispered. He sped up, and fucked her harder. Her hands dug into his back, her hips and waist in rhythm to his movements.

“Ah,” she breathed. “Oh god—oh.”

“Meera,” he rasped. “Fuck, Meera, I want you. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anymore.”

She clutched him tighter. He loved the way her hands gripped to his back, the way they tried over and over again to hold him fast. She mumbled vague words of relief and appeal. He slammed himself back into her.

Meera was going to peak, he could hear it. He pulled up just enough to see her face. Gasping, chest rising and falling in short shallow breaths. Her eyes were pinched shut.

Her voice had been building to a crescendo but next second it died away. Even her breathing ceased. His face hovered just above hers. He wanted to see. When her breathing returned, it came as a low sigh, barely the shadow of a breath, and was followed by the sudden squeeze around his cock.

Bran gave a silent hiss as her slick walls contracted. He tried not to groan, not to close his eyes. He wanted to see.

Each breath from her came fuller than the last until she moaned, clutching herself to him.

Three seconds passed, maybe five, she had only begun to come down, but Bran hastened to plant his face beside her among her curls upon the mattress. Now he didn’t want to be seen.

He shifted his legs to deepen his angle and drove into her, harder, expelling a moan into bedspread. He lifted the arm which bore the less of his weight and groped in the vicinity of his bed’s headboard. His hand found it, gripped the top of the frame, and he sped up.

Next to his ear, Meera made a sharp whine at every down stroke, something between a grunt and a squeak.

Lost in the sanctuary of her, thoughts bubbled up and took shape. Thoughts he hadn’t ask for.

_I missed you, Meera. I missed you so much—the way you feel. I love the way you feel. Do you ever miss me? Do you like the way this feels, how I feel inside you? Did you ever think about it after that night, ever need me, or is this just you passing time?_

_You’ll never understand how much I like this. Or know how much I miss you._

He couldn’t say any of that. So, instead, Bran merely said, “Meera,” in the shred of voice that remained him.

Her cunt was plush and wet as his cock steadily slid into her. He groaned and groaned and groaned. He wanted to brush his hand to the side of her face or cup her breast. He wanted to grab a fistful of that thick and bouncy hair he loved so much. Wanted to press down on her hip and keep her still as he drilled into her. But his hand did not let go from where it anchored him on the headboard.

Her hands and arms were still gripping onto his shoulders. He loved that—the way she clung to him.

Something coiled near the pit of his stomach. He was hurtling towards the edge and he did and didn’t welcome it. He made the barely discernable sound of ‘Meera.’

And he heard his own name whispered back to him.

He pounded into her once more, hand slipping from the headboard. Once more again. His eyes had closed and lungs frozen, not that he could tell. Control and consciousness slipped until amid a groan he was at last forced to let go. He spilled inside her, coming hard and all at once. Gasped for air as white heat blinded him.

In that moment, he could forget himself. Forget every single thing in the noisy world but for how this felt.

He had slowed to a stop, and Meera had stilled as well. He gave her all of himself, completely, until the last drop of him came with a quaking shudder and he slumped over her.

She made a grunt at the weight but tightened her arms around him all the same.

Powerless, unable even to prop himself up, he drifted, feeling protected in her embrace. When his eyes fluttered open again, he felt the urge to wrap his arms around her too, shield her as she shielded him. But he was too exhausted even for that. So he let his eyes fall closed and submitted to the wave of relief that washed over him.

After a while, he became aware of her sweet fingers brushing through his hair. He made to lift himself so as to look at her. She tightened her arms around him, keeping him where he was, and blurted, “Don’t leave yet.”

Just as quickly, he whispered back, “I won’t.”

As he lay there he moved a hand to rub soft circles across her arm. Meera tucked her head close to his, nuzzling him. Bran had to squeeze his eyes shut, pushing down on the involuntary, responding lurch of attachment.

Her hands went to cradle his face, and finally he lifted his head. He gazed into those earthy brown eyes and blinked, not able or willing to say anything. She tipped forward as much as she could, which was not much, and softly kissed the damp skin of his brow.

He could not hold himself up for long. Still quiet, he said, “I’ll…move to your side.”

“Okay.”

Supporting his weight proper, he coaxed his spent cock out of her and flopped onto his side as her legs slid together.

She dragged herself to the top of the bed.

Bran lugged himself up with her. He grabbed the pillow on his side, plopped it on top of hers, and placed them against the headboard so that she could recline. When she set herself down gingerly, he moved to rest leaning upon her chest, at which she resumed stroking the back of his tired head.

She was humming peacefully. Bran said, “You’re staying here tonight, right?”

“…Yeah.” Her tone sounded either impatient or a little hurt.

“‘Kay. Good.”

She hummed some more before saying, “What’s it like for you tomorrow?”

Rather than respond, Bran buried his face straight down on her chest and groaned, making her laugh.

“Why? What’s that about?”

“Eugh. We’re supposed to meet, my siblings and I. Well, we’re supposed to _go_. Go to brunch in the morning. Might be a problem since I’m not there.”

Her fingers played with his hair idly, trying to spin them around, only his hair was too short.

“Will they come get you? Come here? Are _your parents_ coming here?”

“No,” he laughed. Bran rolled the right way round and sat up to lean against the headboard beside her. “Just us kids.”

“Okay. Good. ‘Cause I was about to book it.”

“Very brave of you.”

“Have you met your mother?” Bran was grinning. Meera continued with emphatic sincerity, “Do you have any idea how terrifying it was for me? On that holiday. The morning after, I practically threw myself at the opportunity for a hike when your brothers suggested it. Anything not to be in that kitchen with you and your mum together.”

“You? I had to deal with your father looming over me. And your brother, whom by the way, I had to creep past while he was sleeping to get into bed. And him being the only person I really talk to. And he was giving me those fucking pointed stares.”

She chuckled under her breath. “My brother and father are gentle lambs. You’re mum though…” Bran shook his head. She patted a hand fondly on his leg and asked in a pensive tone, “How are you and Jojen?”

“We’re fine,” he smiled at her, in placid reassurance, still pleasantly warm in that post-coital glow.

She smiled back before her face turned serious. “I’m going to ask you something. And I would like it if you wouldn’t judge me.”

_What in seven hells has gone wrong now?_

“This is not a kink.” His fears evaporated instantly, now he tried not to smirk. Was he about to hear a surprisingly strange, dark kink of hers? She finished in what she probably was hoping was a dignified voice, “Can I borrow some pants?”

There was a beat in which he frowned at her. Then he laughed. “You want to borrow my pants?”

“It’s not a sex thing,” she said, back and shoulders straight, maintaining her pride. “It’s just I don’t want to sleep in a thong.”

He said, still smiling, “Okay. How’s boxers?”

 

With some reluctance, Bran hauled himself out of bed, legs cramping slightly. His dresser was not far, and he fished out from it a pair of loose-fitting boxers for himself before turning on the light.

It was a strange idea: _Meera is naked on my bed._ But there she was.

Meera had flipped to lie on her stomach, covering the most of her. But she had her head propped up in a hand and her feet playing with each other in the air. She surveyed him quite unabashedly, looking like a smug mermaid.

Grinning in both the happiness of an orgasm and the ridiculousness of her, he rummaged in his dresser to find the right pair. He searched for what would be the least potentially embarrassing boxers he could find. If she saw the pair patterned with little cartoon wolves, he would never hear the end of it.

He found a clean pair, black with grey lines checkerboarded, and tossed it over to her. She rolled over on the bed and grabbed a tissue from the nightstand, slipping it in between her legs before she stood up.

She had her back to him as she drew the boxers on. Bran picked out an old t-shirt, made soft from too many washes. Meera swung back around to him. He was wholly exhausted but, of course, Meera was positively bubbly.

He vaguely presented her the t-shirt but failed to announce it, distracted by staring at her. She looked so much shorter when barefoot.

“Staring at my tits again. Typical.”

“Hmm?” He blinked vacantly at her, not having processed what she said.

Meera snatched the shirt out of his hand and threw it over herself.

“Why are you always so energetic?” he mumbled.

Still inside the shirt, Meera cooed, “Awww.” She emerged with his shirt on proper, bright eyed and beaming.

There was a moment in which neither of them said anything. Something changed about her smile but Bran didn’t know what it was. He could never tell what it was.

“I’m going to jump in your shower. Just a rinse. I smell like the club, or you, either way it’s awful.”

“Okay.”

She stepped forward and pressed her lithe frame against him, grabbing his hand by two fingers.

He was almost back in that moment when she nuzzled him with him collapsed, still inside her.

She leaned up, gave him a soft kiss that did not last long enough.

And then she turned and was off.

 

Bran cleaned himself with a tissue. He could have used a rinse too. But he did not think he would be awake for much longer. Couples might shower together. Fuck buddies might even shower together, maybe it led to more fucking. But they weren’t that either, they were friends. Friends except for the 20-30 minutes once a year in which they weren’t.

Some of the dehydration that had started at the club came back and pinched at his head. There was nothing to do but trudge over to the kitchen and fetch a drink. He couldn’t be bothered with filling a glass, so wasting water bottles it was. He grabbed one, and then another so that Meera could put her own by her side.

He slapped them down on the nightstand, his bottle nearly depleted already.

Should he pull on a shirt? His skin was sticky and he didn’t want to, so instead he collapsed onto the bed, feebler each second he kept his eyes open. So he closed them.

His mind wandered back to the thoughts which had blossomed in the heat of their sex. Thoughts about needing Meera, yearning hopelessly that she would need him back. Calm, he reminded himself that pre-orgasm thoughts could be like that. It was more than easy for them to spiral into the realm of overwrought melodrama.

He wished he hadn’t admitted what he did though. That he wanted her more than anyone. But Meera was happy in post-coital glow, he was happy in post-coital glow, and they could happily pretend he hadn’t said anything.

 

He ended up on his side, under the blanket. It had been a few minutes in which he drifted.

The bed dipped beside him and he heard Meera’s voice. “Poor guy. All tuckered out.”

He stayed put for as long as he could before rolling over to face her. She sat watching him. Brown eyes, brown curls, soft skin that was almost freckled. Looking upon her, his face had the happy dumb expression of a person perfectly contented.

_She’s even cuter in that sleeping shirt of mine._

She had tried to tug her hair back, although he wasn’t so sure it had worked out well. Her hair was mostly dry but her skin shone soft from hot water. She started to smile.

“Ohh. I wanted to prod you in the stomach and tease you. But I can’t even do it. You look so tired.”

“I am tired,” he said, tiredly.

She brushed his hair back. He made a soft hum of appreciation.

She waited a moment before saying, “I’m sorry if I freaked out before.”

“You didn’t freak out. And you don’t have to apologize.” His words were coming out slurred as he cared less and less for the effort to enunciate them.

“I just…care. About not ruining things, or our friendship.”

Unfortunately, he had to make himself wake up more.

“It’s not ruined.”

She kneaded her hands together in her lap. “You don’t think we hang out less now?”

“Well, you live in The Reach.”

“Yeah. I suppose so.”

Meera’s shoulders had sagged a little, and Bran felt like he should tell the truth. A man grown would tell the truth. He sighed, “But I know what you mean. I guess before we pretty much just hung with Jojen, all three of us.”

While Jojen had already been miles more tolerant than he needed to be, neither of them could bring themselves to force their joined company on him no more than was necessary. Not when he knew, not only about their awkward hook-ups but also about the subsequent denial, their mummer’s farce.

“That’s a good point actually.” Her face brightened hopefully. “So, it’s not that…we’re broken or anything? Like we made things weird?”

“‘Course not. Look at tonight. I had a great time talking with you.”

She raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Tonight? You’re using tonight as an example of how things are the same between us?”

“Yeah, it wasn’t awkward at all between us. We had a nice chat.”

“Yeah. And then we made out and came here.”

Bran stretched and folded his arms behind head. “Honestly, I fail to see anything in that that is technically unfriendly.”

She begrudged him a laugh.

Pleased with his own humor and sense of ease, he pressed on, “Some friends go hawking. Others might ski. Some, maybe, occasionally sleep together.”

“Right. So you do this with all your friends?”

He chose to ignore that and only looked away with a smile.

Then, quite suddenly, he decided he had been awake long enough. He flipped over and shoved his face into the pillow and slid his arms beneath.

“Are you going to sleep already?”

“Mhmm.”

“The light’s still on.”

Muffled, he said, “Fuck the light.”

 

Bran felt a kiss on the back of his head before Meera’s weight left the bed. There was a click, and the room plummeted back into darkness.

“Budge in.”

He squirmed further back, lightly swatted by her hand as he went.

She slid into bed, wriggled up beside him, and leaned her head upon his arm. He moved it, wrapped it around her, and pulled her in so she would lean against his chest instead.

She settled with a sigh, fidgeting about to find what position was most comfortable.

_Meera’s legs, like Myrish silk._

“…I’m glad you stayed.”

“Don’t be such a sap.”

That gave him a small smile. He smiled a lot around her. “Okay.”

Meera turned her eyes up to him from where she lay. She stared for a spell, in her usual, enigmatic way. He couldn’t tell if the look she gave him was affectionate or sad.

Finally, she turned her head back down and murmured, “Goodnight.”

They relaxed into the darkness and stillness, Meera nestling beside him, fingers caressing lightly where they lay. Sleep began to corner in on him. It would be such a relief to succumb to it, like a drink of much needed water. But it was with a small pang it dawned on him that sleep would bring on tomorrow, and the end of tonight. He liked tonight.

Meera would revert to being his family friend, and not the girl breathing deep in his arms as she fell asleep.

He stroked the sprawled out locks of her hair and, inevitably as he had to, coasted down and backwards the slope of consciousness, disappearing as she had into sleep.


	15. The Morning After (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talisa – 28. Robb, Jon – 27. Theon – 26. Meera – 25. Sansa – 24. Arya – 23. Jojen, Bran – 22. Rickon – 18.

** Bran **

His thoughts were beginning to solidify. Clearer and clearer they grew, until it was that Bran was aware he was having them.

Had he forgotten to do something? There had been something about Arya, or maybe it was Jojen. It had been so loud.

And there had been a cab as well—dark and quiet.

He blinked, opening his eyes.

Bran was on his side, lying in his bed. The first thing his eyes focused on were those curls.

Sometime during the night, he had shifted to lie on his side and Meera had done the same. She lay there now, curled up in front of him with her head on his arm. He’d slung the other over her waist, tucking her in close to him.

Meera looked very different when asleep. Very different, when her eyes were closed and there was no devilish grin to speak of. The slope of her shoulders, loose in his baby blue t-shirt, rose and fell with each breath. On every exhale, she made a small, soft huff.

Blue light was illuminating the walls. That must have been what woke him. Last night he hadn’t bothered to close the blinds. He hadn’t wanted it to be pitch black. He’d wanted to see.

Aches had settled into his legs over the night, less so in his arms. Bran tried as gradually as possible to reposition himself. Meera murmured, and for a second he thought he’d woken her. But she merely stretched her own legs and readjusted herself further back towards him. If that’s what she wanted, that was no problem for him. So he tightened his arm around her, pulling her against him.

She hummed in her sleep. Bran would have smiled, but his eyes had already begun to close again.

Outside the windows, the world could continue to revolve, silent and slow and unimportant. Dawn was close but hadn’t truly broken yet. They could still sleep.

 

** Jon **

By the pre-dawn light Arya watched as signs of a new day burgeoned across the sidewalks of King’s Landing. A few subdued shopkeepers had left their homes, yawning, on their way to unlock storefronts of the city’s bakeries and bodegas. Not many though. Today was Saturday, and there would be no rush hour starting at 6:00 and picking up at 8:00. Even so, last night’s hooligans were gone, replaced by early starters well-rested. A few joggers could even be seen, the ones too dedicated to know better than to wake this early on the weekend.

Arya watched them from the SUV’s middle passenger row, leaned up against the window. Rickon covered most of the seat beside her, pitching and rolling in his sleep with the motion of the van. She kept a firm grip on his shoulder to steady him best she could. While he continued to use her leg for a pillow, Arya thought it best he not retch again.

All the same, her eyes stayed glued outside, determined as she was to ignore pointed looks being thrown back at her from the rear view mirror. Reflected were dark eyes that flit up to glare at her, back to the road, and up again.

“ _Seven_.”

She feigned deaf as well as.

“Seven people left in this car yesterday. And two are returning.”

“Three.”

Jon drummed his fingers along the steering wheel. “Two and a half,” he conceded stiffly.

They passed another minute in deliberate silence.

“Had to be The Nightfort. Nightsong—not good enough. Ghaston Grey was a no. Only Nightfort. Because _that_ is what would turn your mother’s hair the most.”

At last Arya turned from the window with a sigh. She might as well have, for the distractions outside were dwindling closer to the suburbs.

“Robb and Sansa do not count,” she spoke.

 

The plans, which had been discussed ad nauseum the night before, called for them to pick up Talisa as a group. Come the morning, the lot of them would drive the long way out to the airport. And on their way back they would break their fast at Willow Wood, a swank but remote bistro tucked away in the sprawling, pristine fields of the outer Crownlands. There they could have themselves a bit of a breather, just among the kids, and recharge their energy before the inevitable fuss of the rest of the day.

But it had only been a quarter to 4:00 when Robb pulled out his phone to stare at a text from Talisa.

By then, most everyone was tired. The club’s crowd had waned, though one was not like to be able to tell from the noise. The newer wave of people was even louder and pushier than before.

The two eldest Starklings had found the party less interesting once they were tasked with babysitting Rickon, left to brood over the prospect of Ned and Catelyn’s displeasure at how well the two youngest had faired while under their protection. A barman had hurried over to scrap up the pool of sick once Rickon heaved it up. He hadn’t told them to leave, strictly speaking, though the look on his face conveyed quite plainly the staff’s appreciation of their latest contribution.

Sansa too was less inclined to mingle among the young lords and ladies once Jeyne and Beth, and even Myranda, had all gone home. Theon had long since disappeared already, sucked up into a group of seedy looking Ironborn that had made a brief (and slightly unwelcome) appearance.

Glancing about in a flash of panic, Gendry realized he would be the only non-Stark remaining in their inner circle. He’d professed his apologies to a disappointed Arya before bidding some hasty farewells to the rest as well. He even went to shake hands with Robb once more, apologizing loudly for having doused him in ale. Robb waved that away with the good-natured laugh of his. In light of being compared to Bran or Rickon, Gendry had come to acquire a much more reliable vibe about him.

The Starks remaining had clustered beside the booth, though it was only Sansa and Rickon who sat. Sansa held him, patting his head like a mother while he fought to stay awake, and she raised her voice to be heard up above where an incoherent jumble was being shouted back and forth. Jon watched with his arms crossed—the only sober one among them.

“Where’s that fellow Gendry? Is he still here?”

“I told you, he left ten minutes ago.”

“Sansa, I want to go home.”

“I know. We’re leaving soon. Come on, guys, pack it in.”

“Wait but _where_ is Bran?”

“We’ve been over this.”

“Did you check though? Did you try calling him? You’re sure he’s not here?”

“I’m not calling him. Yes, he is not here.”

“Ask Jojen.”

“I don’t know where Jojen is.”

“What about Meera?”

“Arya, open your ears. How did you think we figured out he was gone in the first place?”

“Sansa.”

“I know, sweetling, I know.”

“I don’t feel good.”

“We’re almost leaving.”

“So who are we waiting on?”

“We’re not waiting on anyone! Let’s go.”

“Where’s Theon?”

“Oh, for fuckssake—”

Robb shushed them all, pulling out his phone.

“What? Who is it?” Arya asked. “Is it Bran?”

Robb looked up with an unfocused gaze, unsure who he was speaking to. “It’s Talisa. She’s here, in Westerosi time. Caught an early flight.” He replied, speaking in the slow speed of typing, “Don’t…take…a cab. On my way.” Then, sliding his phone back into his pocket and staring vacantly at the rest of them, Robb finished, “Right, I’m off. So—alright—goodbye.”

And without so much as a pause, he spun on the spot and strolled away. Sansa quickly handed Rickon off to Arya to chase after him, calling over her shoulder about making sure he didn’t forget just where it was he was off to.

“Blind leading the blind,” Jon muttered before he turned back to see what was left of his flock: Arya, holding a most disgruntled Rickon.

 

“Robb and Sansa do not count, so that’s five, not seven. And no one honestly expected Theon to stay the whole night. That makes four. Rickon’s technically here—three. So…we barely lost anyone.”

“Ymm?”

“Just Bran, and he wasn’t even with us at the start of the night. So everyone’s returning pretty much.”

“Hmm,” Jon continue to hum, unconvinced. “Your parents will have naught to say on the matter, then?”

Arya huffed and glanced out once more at the gradually lightening sky. As long as their parents woke to find the car safely stowed in the garage and heard within the house the vague footfalls of Starklings, no one’s absence need ever be pointed out. The trouble was that Ned and Catelyn Stark had a habit of waking infuriatingly early.

 

“Help me with him,” Jon hissed under his breath.

With a hiss of her own, Arya growled, “I’m trying.”

There were still fifteen minutes until 5:00AM and the two of them were doing their utmost to encourage Rickon along up the stairs. Rickon merely slumped against the railing.

Jon tried to pull him right and said in a surly undertone, “Rickon, stop being a prat and cooperate. You’re not a damned baby anymore.”

Rickon couldn’t be bothered to keep his voice low. “Leave me alone.”

“I could, I absolutely could. I’m just too bloody noble.”

With some difficulty, Jon hoisted his little brother up below the shoulder, pulling the boy’s weight onto himself. Jon stumbled them up to the second floor, Arya trailing behind in their wake with her arms out should she need to catch Rickon. His bedroom was on this floor. As was Bran’s. As was their parents’.

Jon eyed the darkened hallway leading to the master bedroom nervously. “I’m gonna throw him in the shower before we chuck him in his room. They might catch his smell otherwise.”

Arya glanced between the bathroom on their left and the hall on their right when next they heard the front door bang open. Robb’s voice filled the silence, accompanied soon after by Sansa’s.

Jon barely had time to make a face; Arya was already halfway down the stairs. The noise seemed to rouse Rickon, who shuffled onto his feet and, moving faster now, Jon lumbered the two of them into the small bathroom a few feet away.

 

Inside, Jon dangled him off his arm, dropping the boy slowly into the shower stall.

“Rickon, wake your ass up.” His only response was to slump down the wall until he found his way onto the tiled floor and sat, breathing hard with his eyes still shut. “ _You_ —”

Water would serve just fine to wake him up; Jon only needed ten minutes of him. He yanked on the sleeves of Rickon’s shirt, pulling it over his head.

As he crouched down, the bathroom door opened and Robb sidled in. The hour they’d spent apart appeared to not have sobered him up in the least. “What’s this??” he asked, sounding almost accusatory, eyes bright and face slightly red. “Oh. The little dweeb. Oi, Rickon! Up you get.”

“Keep your voice down _._ ”

Robb complied, but it was with a persecuted tone that he said, “Why are you and Arya all worked up? It’s not as though we’re trespassing.”

“The less your parents know of Arya’s choice little outing, the better. Unless you’re keen to explain why Bran didn’t come back with us. Then by all means, wake ‘em up. It’s naught to me.” Complain all he want though, it would remain true that it _did_ matter to Jon. Loyalty wasn’t something you could just switch off. “You tell your poor ol’ mum that Bran prefers shacking up with some random bird over coming home to his parents, he prefers the company of his Night Queen over hers.”

Robb made a lazy, scoffing sound. “Bah. That’s not what it is.”

“No, but you know that’s how she’ll hear it. She was already upset yesterday when he wasn’t here. Fretting, going on and on about him living on his own and not wanting to admit he still needs help.”

Jon was trying to pull apart Rickon’s shoelaces while using the smallest amount of contact possible. He wasn’t entirely sure that the shoes had been spared vomit had bespattered the ends of Rickon’s trousers.

“You know, she might have even used the phrase ‘a woman’s touch’—yikes. She finds out, her heart will turn to stone, it will. She’s not ready.”

Robb chewed his lip, observing Jon’s progress, before he said, “Whatcha mean by ‘some random bird?’”

“What, you want to rat out as well that it was Meera?”

“Wouldn’t that be better, soften the blow? Maybe they’d be pleased…or less upset. She’s someone they like.”

Jon finally had managed to wrestle free both of Rickon’s shoes, which smelled horrible. As he placed them outside the shower stall, he took the time to turn around and stare at Robb dead-on, eyebrows raised. “I suppose. _If_ you want to commit him to proposing already.” Robb rolled his eyes but took the point. “I’ll await the announcement of their betrothal any day now.”

“I’ll say he never came out. He’s forsaken this family. Run off to take up mummery.”

“While you’re at it,” Jon said, contemplating how next to best tackle the stained jeans, “You can explain why our dearest, youngest Rickon, whom you swore to keep safe, drank so much he puked on himself right after an unsightly snog with a Redwyne.”

“Why’s it all got to fall on me?”

“You could just not wake them up.”

Robb was grumbling, and Jon was ignoring him.

“Rickon, you have to wake up. Rinse yourself off and then stow away these rank clothes of yours.”

“I’ll shower,” Rickon said as he crossed his arms where he lay as if to go to sleep.

Robb asked from behind Jon’s shoulder, “Do you think he’s alright?”

“I think so. He already threw up twice so…should be fine.”

“Turn the tap on. That’ll wake him up.”

“What, in his jeans? Will you put them in your room?”

“No. I don’t want them fouling up my room. We can put them in Bran’s room.”

“D’you think your mum will check his room?”

“That would be the _one_ room she’d check. Wee Bran. Her sweetest boy.”

Jon grinned, shaking Rickon’s shoulders. “Up now. Strip and take a shower.”

Rickon growled, “ _Alright_ ,” sounding put-upon, and he stretched out on the tiles, turned on his side, and tucked his hands beneath his head.

Jon’s mouth opened, too frustrated to speak. Robb picked up the dirty shoes, giggling quietly, and left, most likely off to stow them in Bran’s room.

“Just my luck,” Jon muttered to himself as he resigned himself to tugging at the denim, avoiding splotches of sick. Rickon rolled in an attempt to dodge around Jon and continue sleep uninterrupted. “Expensive night on the town. Debauchery, intoxication, people pairing off left and right. And the person I wind up fighting out of their clothes at the end of the night is _you_.”

 

The start of the night had been pleasant enough. Of course it was touching to see Arya so happy, so elated. That not-so-secret non-boyfriend of hers seemed decent enough, even if he struck Jon as an unpolished sort of fellow. Nervous, but not nearly as bad as someone like his own friend Sam. Frankly, the night probably served as the best case scenario for introducing him. Somewhere loud, fraternizing with all the others, trying to keep an eye on their greenest—somewhere where Robb and Jon wouldn’t be allowed to focus all their attention solely onto him. Maybe that’s why she insisted on drinks at The Nightfort in the first place.

The rest of the night though…

Rickon was acting the brat, to be sure. He probably even possessed the ability somewhere to pull himself together rather than leave his mess to Jon.

Yes, Rickon was being a pain in the ass but it wasn’t really that bad. Not truly. All of them, himself included, had at one point been the helpless drunk. So far gone—all that they were capable of was sitting at the bottom of the shower and working hard to breathe.

They had always helped each other out. Helped each other slip past undetected by their parents’ (if indeed they were). Now with Rickon, it seemed it had happened to all of them. All of them, apart from Bran.

Bran had never been so wasted as this. The worst that Jon could think of was the time he’d come to dinner high, returning from an afternoon at Jojen’s house. Even then he’d still been well behaved. Almost the same as normal, only twitchier.

Perhaps last night he had decided he didn’t mind what anyone else knew.

Or perhaps he hadn’t even remembered they existed, tunnel-visioning. Were that the case, Jon felt certain that Bran would deplore the coming day with every fiber of his being. And he hoped for Bran’s sake that whatever happened had been the former.

He remembered the way Bran had shrunk before him those some odd years ago when he’d revealed to Bran that he knew. Knew about him and Meera. Bran's voice had grown so small.

_Please, don’t tell anyone. Please, Jon._

Jon sighed.

 

He was muttering darkly to himself when the door reopened.

This time he could tell out of the corner of his eye that it was not Robb. Talisa’s slender figure entered into the cramped bathroom. Inky black hair, bronze skin, her face went from surprised to amused at the sight which greeted her.

“Nice to see you, Jon.”

“Hello, Talisa,” he said airily, as though greeting her over coffee. “Glad to be back with the Starks, I’m sure?”

“I’ve been back in Westeros for only an hour and already I feel like more’s happened than my entire trip back home.” She bent low, hands on her knees. “How is he? How many times has he been sick?”

“Twice.”

“Not yellow colored?”

“Nah, just mainly that nasty green liquor.”

Talisa frowned. “That’s absinthe. That’s Volanteen. That’s good!”

“Didn’t look good coming up.”

At last the jeans had been slithered off, though Jon had not been entirely successful in keeping his hands clean. He wiped them on what clean bit of trousers there were. “Right, we’ll just leave those where they are,” he said of the black briefs, all that Rickon was left dozing in quite at peace.

The peace was broken seconds later when Jon flipped on the faucet and unheated water came splashing down. Rickon woke with a blustering lurch, spraying droplets at Jon and Talisa as he whipped his hair out of his eyes. His hands groped for the tap and he shut it off, spluttering.

“What the fuck are you— _Hey!_ Talisa, this is the men’s room.”

“This is our bathroom at home, you tit.”

“How are you feeling?” Talisa asked as she reached over to put a hand to his brow. He batted her away.

“You can’t be in here. Go away.”

“Don’t be rude,” Jon snapped.

She didn’t seem too bothered though. Her face was still cheerful as she retrieved her hand, apparently satisfied. “I see much worse in residency, I assure you.”

Rickon’s arms hovered before his torso, shielding himself for decency. Somewhat reluctantly, he muttered, “My head feels like a brick. Like a swaying brick.”

“Yes, well, alcohol, throwing up—it’s all very dehydrating. Drink some water and take a nap. Maybe have a bit of sugar when we break our fast.”

“…I didn’t throw up. Did I?”

“ _Yes, you did,_ ” Jon said, thin patience running thinner. He tossed a bar of soap at Rickon, which he managed to catch even in his stupor. “Wash the stink off before your mum beats it off you.”

“Talisa, out you go,” Rickon said calmly as he began to scrub. She left, chuckling much like Robb had done. Once she’d gone, Rickon continued, “I see what this is.” He rubbed the soap over his legs and arms, looking quite absurd sitting in his briefs on the tile floor.

“Get your hair too. It stinks.”

“You’re all twisted up in a knot since Mum and Dad will blame you lot for my woes.”

“Don’t press your luck, ‘Tricky Ricky,’ or I’ll snap a pic of you in all your current glory just for Desmera.”

Rickon’s hand lowered, his eyes slowly grew wide. “…How do you know that name?”

Jon smirked and stood up. “Hurry and wash up. Then go lie down in your room. If your parents come in, just tell them you’re tired and act like you’re asleep. Don’t mention Bran.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“Nothing. Just keep your mouth shut and get some sleep before breakfast.”

“No.”

“Go on. Wash, and be quick about it,” Jon repeated simply, preparing to exit and sneak upstairs.

“If you don’t tell me, the first thing I’ll mention is Bran. What’s happening? You tell me.”

Jon was already sliding through the door. He departed with a last threatening whisper, “One more word and Desmera’s coming up in front of the parents as well.”

The door snapped shut just as Jon heard Rickon hiss, “ _How do you know that name??_ ”

 

** Bran **

He awoke all at once with his face smooshed against a feather pillow. And he could tell from the moment he opened his eyes that it was all too bright. Even against the plush cotton, white and faded sunlight was flooding in through the creases. Someone was jabbing a finger at the back of his head.

Bran rolled over, squinting against the light.

Meera was beside him, her face bright and cheerful and her legs dangling off the bed. He frowned at her, waiting for sleep to leave him and their whereabouts to come back. Then Bran dug his shoulders into the mattress stubbornly, sulking as only a brother of Jon Snow would know how to sulk.

It proved to darken Meera’s smile not one bit. She had drawn up all the window blinds as high as they would go, accounting for why it was far too bright.

She had changed back into her clothes from last night as well. Bran didn’t like that either. To see her asleep in his cotton shirt, loose and unassuming around her shoulders, had been so distinctly peaceful. Restorative of some part he didn’t even know needed restoring. And fleeting. Unfairly fleeting.

Now that she had stopped poking him, Meera studied him looking quite as sunny as the weather. Her head tilted to one side, reminding him of the way their wolves looked when puzzling something out. He could see, in her arms and in her posture, all of the energy she had recharged overnight, even before his eyes made it all the way up to hers. She smiled when they did.

“Were you planning on sleeping all day?”

“Yes.”

She gave his blanketed legs a bit of a shake. “That won’t serve. Won’t serve at all. Where’s your Northern work ethic?”

Bran rubbed his eyes, realizing as he did so that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Meera was aware too. Between two fingers, she nipped at the skin of his chest so that he had to swing his arm back down in defense.

“ _Nnn_. Why are you such a morning person?”

“I’m a day person, Bran. It’s day.”

His eyes were still more closed than open. _It’s too early. I preferred it when it was earlier still. Earlier than early—that’s the perfect time. That’s when no one expects anything of you. When we can just_ be _, in peace._

“What time is it?”

“Bit after 9:30. Your phone has been ringing.”

“My phone?”

“You left it in the living room.”

“Who’s calling me?”

“The police.” He blinked at her, still waiting for his brain to load in full. The more grumpy he looked, the more entertained Meera became. “I don’t know, Bran. I didn’t look.” She chuckled, unable to stop herself, and said looking down at her own knees, “You’re adorable.”

“Stop that.” It was too early to be teased.

“Right, you’re right. You’re not adorable. You’re a hard man of winter. Chopping wood, crossing swords, repressing emotions, fighting beas—”

“Meera, cut it out.”

He made to push her off the bed, but half-way through sitting up he decided that that would be entirely too much effort. So he slumped back down instead and was treated to another of her amused, self-satisfied smiles.

His energy was at 4% and hers was at 400. He stared openly at her, going for ‘reproachful.’ But, much to his chagrin, he was losing the battle at remaining as grumpy as he wanted to be. He was almost smiling.

“I used your toothbrush.”

He quipped at her, “Now that goes too far.”

Meera’s grin turned shy and she looked close to blushing. “Sorry.”

Bran sighed and rubbed his eyes again. He said, suppressing a yawn, “I keep all the spare toothbrushes from the dentist under the sink.”

“Hmm. I’ll keep that in mind then.”

It took him a moment to register what she said. He peeked out from behind his hands to look at her. Her expression remained as calm as ever, still water, unchanging.

Meera reached and pushed her fingers through his hair deep by the roots, untrapping some heat where the hair had stuck together.

‘ _Please don’t do that,_ ’ he thought, even as his eyes closed once more, soothed.

“When was that brunch you and your brothers and sisters are heading off to?”

“What? Oh.” He was forced to wake up, and forced to admit, “I don’t know.” Bran sat up. “Don’t raise your eyebrows at me.”

“They wouldn’t leave you behind, would they?”

“I doubt it.”

“So, they’ll be coming here then?”

He hesitated in answering. When he met her eyes he said with some resignation, “Yes, most like. I know, I know. I’m getting up.”

“There’s a good lad.”

Bran gave her an annoyed sort of smile as she hopped off the bed. He tried his best not to show that she was actually succeeding in making him cheerful.

“I’m going to help myself to your kitchen while you collect yourself.”

She left, ignoring Bran’s mutters about food thieves and pulling the door behind her so that it closed with a click.

 

Once alone, the fog in his head began to dissipate.

His trousers, his shirt, and the t-shirt he’d worn underneath—they were all strewn about different locations on the floor. Heat crawled up into his face.

What had he done last night? And Meera had gone along with it? And now she was here, she remembered too?

She was in good spirits at least. But still, as Bran stumbled out of bed and pulled on the first pair of jeans he could find, he felt uncomfortably aware of everything about him. His age, his apartment. His family. They’d seen. They could even burst in at any moment.

He felt clumsy, and the white tee he pulled over his head stank of sweat. It was the one from the night before. He should have bothered to find a new one. But he had to rush. Meera would leave soon. She’d already gotten dressed and futzed about, all while he was sleeping.

She’d been the one to set the rules before. What were they now? Where were they? Was he setting any rules?

Bran figured to himself that if he needed to ask that question, the answer was most likely ‘no.’

 

He shut the bedroom door behind him. Less to see in the case he needs suffer any sudden visitors.

Meera sat on his kitchen counter, munching away at a half-skinned apple. His cheeks felt warmer still at the wee smirk she gave him even while she chewed. Glancing away, Bran found his phone on a sidetable by the couch.

> **Six missed calls.**

He swiped that away, brow furrowed, and clicked text messages instead.

> **08:17; Arya**
> 
> _robb said we’re not to jettison you_
> 
> _since i’m the kindest, i offered to pick u up_
> 
> _git_
> 
> **08:54; Arya**
> 
> _be ready at 10:00_
> 
> **09:03; Arya**
> 
> _can’t help but notice that you HAVENT. REPLIED._
> 
> **09:12; Arya**
> 
> _bran stark all i'm saying is your punk ass better be ready when I get there. i’m going out of my way on my birthday to pick you up since you 1. go off whenever the hell u want 2. insist on remaining transportationally-challenged. least u can do is not make me to wait another 30 min_
> 
> _if you’re not ready when i arrive, i’m leaving_
> 
> **09:15; Arya**
> 
> _i know your phone isn’t dead  
>  _
> 
> **09:33; Arya**
> 
> _istatg i will kick your ass so hard you’ll land in dorne_

He could sense Meera’s gaze still on him. “I’ll…be right back,” he said quietly, and slinked off to the bathroom, not looking at her.

 

Bran held the bathroom door shut behind him, breathing hard. His heart was beating just a little too fast. _Get a hold of yourself. You’re a Stark of Winterfell. Stop acting like a craven—what, are you frightened of Meera?_

He shook his head, trying to clear it, and staggered to the mirror.

His eyes were heavy-lidded from sleep. His hair stuck up in random places and there was a most unimpressive aura of someone who should have but had not bathed.

He splashed cold water on his face which at least helped drain some of the sleep from his eyes. Although now, on top of being unkempt, his hair looked ratty where he’d gotten it wet. He swiped his hand back and forth it gruffly.

While he hurried in brushing his teeth, Bran stared blankly at the tube of toothpaste before him.

_CITADEL’S NUMBER ONE RECOMMENDED BRAND FOR EXTREME CLEAN †_

Parts of his memory were clicking on bit by bit from last night. Muddled images streamed past, not yet properly absorbed. He was inside a new memory now, reminded of where his mouth had been a few hours ago. Shrouded in darkness, her thighs moving underneath his hands, noises expelled deep from her throat. Lovely, desperate noises. Grateful noises. And his face buried upon her, pressed on the glory of her skin, both of them over-hot and trembling. Parting her legs to reveal that secret refuge he wanted so much. Exploring with the bridge of his nose, his mouth and his tongue—

Bran spat out the toothpaste and rinsed, too hastily. He was left wiping at the water that had smattered down his front and found, to his annoyance, his hands were unsteady.

 _Normal._ _I’m normal, we’re normal, this is normal._ _Don’t make it weird._

 

Meera had just finished her apple. She smacked her hands together to banish the juice off her fingers. She sucked at a spot still sticky just as she looked up and found Bran watching her from across the kitchen.

She always looked delighted to see him. Maybe that’s why he always wanted to see her.

The way she sat on the countertop, Meera dangled her legs off the edge like a kid playing in a grocery store trolley. When her eyes traveled upwards to the bedraggled state of his hair, Bran saw a smile in them but for once she worked to keep the smile out of her face. Subjecting him to only nine of ten japes might just be Meera’s way of being gentle.

“You’re a beacon of energy, you are.”

_There she is._

Bran only made a low hum in acknowledgement from where he stood leaned upon the fridge.

The whole scene was a bit bizarre. Meera was pillaging his food, in his kitchen, wiggling her legs off his counter. She wore tight leather and dangerously loose satin, belonging to the night, but was bathed in the innocence of yellow sunlight. The longer he stared, the funnier it seemed. That served to calm his nerves at least.

“Where’s Summer?”

“Summer? Oh, he doesn’t live here. It’s too small; there’s no yard. He’s with the rest of the pack at my parents’.”

Her head sank between her shoulders in a dejected sort of way. “I was hoping for some quality time with Summer. I love him, I love all them lot.”

“I know. I know that’s the reason you came.”

She glimpsed him through the curtain of brown curls that hung before her face, grinning. He’d convinced himself they were doomed for awkwardness. But Meera was her usual self—merry, light, having fun. If anything she was more herself now than she’d been with him for a long time.

He figured he ought to just shut up but regardless he heard words escaping from him. “You look cute, sitting up there like that.”

She shimmied her hands underneath her legs to sit on them, letting her hair fall further, obscuring her face from view. But that did not stop Bran from just catching the curve at the corner of her mouth. Meera was so confident, no stranger to bragging or to compliments. But her boasts were half in jest, and it would seem there were _some_ compliments from which she shied away.

“Well,” Meera mumbled, locking her feet together in the air. “Not to be mushy, but morning-mess you is a tad sexy.”

The doubts that had been worrying away at him had been steadily fading into the background. They were almost gone now and the further they faded, the lighter he felt. Light enough even to enjoy her compliment. To enjoy watching her as much as she enjoyed watching him. He pushed off from the fridge.

Meera sat a little straighter as he came towards her. He came to a stop just at her knees. When he drifted one more step closer, she moved them apart as he took up the space between them.

Like this, they were aligned in height. This close, her brown eyes looked huge. But even as they combed back and forth across his features with a heat pooling inside them, he felt her tighten the knot within her chest as though trying to reign in everything she’d let go of last night and cram it all back into wherever it was she stored it.

Bran realized he wasn’t saying anything and caught her eye.

In barely more than a whisper, she said, “I have to go.”

“I know.”

His hands cupped her neck anyways. He moved his mouth to hers. It was effortless. Perhaps he was too tired for nerves, or maybe he was still high from last night from touching her, feeling her all over and everywhere.

With another pang he remembered she was about to leave. He pulled her waist towards him, tighter.

It wasn’t only him. As her mouth opened for him, she leaned into the way his hands ran from her waist up her back. Besides apple, she tasted like his brand of peppermint toothpaste, which made him smile, even as he kissed her harder, their movements sharper.

He made her tilt further back, perhaps rushing a little, so he could find the crook of her neck as he had done the night before, and he took her there with his mouth again. He liked to. He liked the way she squirmed and tried not to squirm when he did. Her hands smoothed up his arms, around to the span of his shoulders, up the back of his neck and into his hair. Every time she put her hands in his hair, it was perfect. Perfect the way she pulled him toward her.

There was a sense of routine and a sense of urgency. His breath came hot, riled, when she pushed him up off her, but she only drove him back enough to bring his mouth back onto hers. He remembered her, how she moved, how she felt.

And then the air filled with the cartoonish, electronic whistling of his phone.

The noise rattled them both. The dumb, grating noise felt so far from where he had been that it left his mind reeling, like he’d been wrenched off his bike just as it was gathering speed.

Bran had pulled himself upright but remained standing in front of her, head turned away to listen to that bloody phone, grinding his teeth. _If it isn’t Robb, it’s Arya._

He cleared his throat and told Meera as much, that it was Arya who was the one coming to get him.

Meera took the interruption better than he did. After the second in which they both froze, she shook her head and let out a sedated chuckle.

“Ah, Arya. Girl after my own heart. Though I don’t particularly want to see her…today...here.” 

“Yeah.” Bran swallowed, not completely removed from the moment yet, leaving his head feeling full and confused.

“I’m off to catch the bus.” 

“Do you want—I could call a cab.”

“No, no,” Meera said as she wriggled his shoulders back to give her room to slide down. Without her heels, she stood much shorter before him in the confined space. She had stood like this in front of him last night too, when her hands had flown up and struggled with the buttons on his shirt. “I like the bus,” she was saying. “I like the walk—looking along at the windows. Could I maybe borrow a sweatshirt though? This blouse’s a bit tarty.”

He smiled, but he did not kiss her. That had ended. He wouldn’t sulk.

Bran went to the coat closet and snatched up his most comfortable sweatshirt, grey with the charcoal team name WOLVES emblazoned on it.

Behind him, Meera was dragging on her heels. “ _Result_. New sweatshirt.”

“That’s for borrowing,” he said as she took the bundle and pulled it over herself, disappearing into it.

“I’ve always wanted a Wolves sweatshirt. And boy sweatshirts are the best.” Her head and bouncy hair emerged from the hood. She set to fixing the sleeves.

“Borrowing—it’s for borrowing.”

For a second, they stared at each other. Something tugged inside him. She was leaving. He wanted to kiss her. Not like before. If not kiss her, hold her, or touch her hand at least. She was leaving.

Meera opened her mouth to speak. Words didn’t come though. She gave a nervous glance in the direction of his phone, and then she sighed away whatever it was she’d forgotten how to say.

“I have to go,” she repeated. He nodded.

She flashed him an apologetic face, turned, pulled the front door open.

“Meera—”

She spun halfway back around. That made her hair span out before falling back again. She was looking at him.

The suddenness of the moment had come so soon. He was so glad last night had happened. There was no point in saying that. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know.

“Yes?”

“This was...” he said, searching. “This was…fun,” he finished, lamely.

That was appalling. He should have bothered to once or twice accompany Jojen to poetry jams, to have learned anything about eloquence.

She didn’t make fun. She returned his gaze, and her smile was gentle. “It was.”

“I know you’re going but...Well, it was fun...hanging out with you.”

She made an agreeing sort of laugh. If she was trying to say something with her eyes, he didn’t know what it was.

They were already sliding back onto platonic terms. He couldn’t kiss her. He didn’t know how to say goodbye. He was not exactly sure where he was going, but he stumbled on, “Maybe...maybe some time, when you’re back in town, we can...hang out again.”

Meera had to glance at the floor for a second to compose herself; she’d lost control over that ‘little’ smile, far too amused by how thinly veiled his meaning was.

Still, she almost looked bashful when she said, “Yeah. Maybe. I wouldn’t mind.”

He smiled at her, but he didn’t feel like he could touch her. So he stayed where he was.

“Bye, Bran.”

“Bye. Meera.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Bran is Lyanna: "Promise me, Jon...Promise me."  
> Hoo boy, these some fucked up times. Smh.


	16. The Day After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talisa – 28. Robb, Jon – 27. Theon – 26. Meera – 25. Sansa – 24. Arya – 23. Jojen, Bran – 22. Rickon – 18.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filler/No OTP in this chapter as Meera’s ass doesn’t show back up again for another 1 or 1.5 chapters ¯\\(◕▃◕✿)/¯ If anyone wishes I was a faster writer, it's me, writing with all the force of a great drought. (admittedly, counterproductive habit of adding more fat to the ending rather than just trimming the fat from the middle like I'm supposed to)

The door clicked, and she was gone. Before doing anything else, Bran gave himself that moment, breathing in the apartment’s now-emptiness.

Then he spun round. Any second now, Arya could come bursting in. She’d have the spare key and not a drop more patience. His sister had a nasty temper when riled, and he had been ignoring her all morning.

What he dreaded more—more than Arya’s foul mood—was the look she would give him. A barely concealed sense of superiority; the smug raise of her brow, like a challenge. _‘Well now. What was that there last night? Not trying to keep that under wraps, were you?’_

It made no matter. Standing around dumb was not like to do him any good. Right now, he smelled of alcohol, smoke, and sex. And if Arya burst in right now, he’d be expected to go with her, as is. _I won_ _’t_.

Though not going would be just as awful. Bran could already feel the conspicuousness of his absence expanding. It loomed larger with every additional hour he was missing. The prospect of him actually failing to rejoin them for their morning plans was too much to bear.

He bolted down the side hall, skittered headlong through the bathroom door, and kicked it shut behind him. Off went the clothes he’d only just thrown on as he went clambering into the shower.

Clumsily, sloppily, he worked shampoo into his hair before snatching up the bar of soap to give himself a good once-over. Running soap up along his arms, Bran began to think just how good it might feel to truly enjoy the cleansing, pleasant feeling of dried sweat being sloughed away, if only he had the time to slow down. But such temptations were rudely interrupted when next second he spluttered, the combined haste and lack of concentration earning him a faceful of shampoo.

 

Eyes stinging, Bran tiptoed his way out the shower stall to grab a towel, banding it about the waist like a skirt.

He whisked back down the hall, one hand combing through his wet hair to knock loose some of the water, the other pinned tight atop the towel. He halted, however, upon reentering the living room.

Arya had planted herself in the middle of his flat. From where she stood behind the sofa, she was glaring intently at her phone, fingers madly tapping away at some message. She pressed send and turned her face up.

To one side was Arya, phone in hand, sporting a worn pair of high tops and the blue rose earrings that Jon had given her some several birthdays before. Her outfit was a jumble of mismatched shapes—a bulky, short jacket, skinny jeans—that could either look ill-planned or high-fashion, depending on the wearer’s attitude. On Arya, whom usually bore a ‘try me’ attitude unless she felt the need to doubt herself, the verdict was high-fashion.

To the other end stood Bran in his towel, water dripping steadily onto his shoulders.

Bran took notice of the discrepancy as they stared at one another.

“H-heyyy,” he said with a decidedly light tone, not looking at her but rather at where his feet were treading as he started an awkward crabwalk across the windows to the apartment’s back wall. “Just running a minute behind schedule.”

Arya observed his awkward march in silence. At university, Arya had picked up the annoying ability of wiping her face blank like a mask if she wanted to, as she apparently did now. Somehow, that oft proved a deal more intimidating than something just as straightforward as a scowl.

“…Out in two minutes,” Bran promised in a mumble as he vanished behind his bedroom door.

 

 

“ _So_ ,” Arya began as they drove onto the nearest motorway ramp. The clicking of her jeep’s indicators nagged mechanically in the background.

She’d agreed to cooperate and leave the apartment (or indeed say anything, ignoring his stabs at smalltalk) only _after_ Bran finally apologized and thanked her resignedly for picking him up.

“I saw a girl who looked an awful lot like Meera as I pulled in to your place.”

He didn’t answer. At the moment, Bran had his attention fixed to the jeep’s progress as they merged onto the highway. Better there than paying mind to whatever roundabout chicanery it was that Arya was preparing to put him though.

Arya, whom had long grown used to Bran flinching at her and everyone else’s driving, was not distracted by his habit now. She sped up ahead of the car beside them, cut in in front, and continued cooly, “In fact, I could have _sworn_ that she was wearing Meera’s outfit from last night. But, oh no, she wasn’t. No, this girl also had on a Wolves sweatshirt.”

Now that they were speeding along the highway proper, Bran could relax. He lifted his eyes from the side-view mirror where they’d been glued tracking the other cars on the road.

Not that he was anymore willing now than before to join this conversation. “Huh,” he said simply.

“She waved at me. I waved back.”

“Fascinating.”

Bran picked morosely at the shirt he wore beneath an unbuttoned button-up. Without the proper time to dry, his skin was still damp, and the material was still clinging annoyingly so.

For once Arya wasn’t playing obnoxious music.

At last, Bran half-said, half-growled, “Whattttttt do you want?”

“Come on, Branno. It’ll go better for you if you just own up; get it over with straight away. It’s not like we’ve somehow _not_ noticed. Am I right here, not noticing? Have I mysteriously managed to not notice I’ve had to come pick you up?”

“Own up what? I apologized for leaving the party.”

“Mmm, hate to break it to you but you and a certain lady of House Reed got much to learn in the way of stealth. Because it’s not exactly a secret that you left your sister’s birthday part—a _smashing_ good time, might I add—to cavort publicly. And being twitchy about it is only going to make everyone throw it in your face all the more.”

“There isn’t anything I need to own up to. What do you mean ‘everyone?’”

“I think I mean everyone.”

“And what does that mean?”

“Ohhh. Come on, Bran. We were all there; we were all participant to the less-than-praved gallivanting.”

“That’s not a word.”

“No, gallivanting most certainly _is_ a word. We were all there as a group, I remind you. Something you seemed to have forgotten when you ghosted without saying so much as a word to anyone. We had half-a-mind to show up at your place just to make sure you were alright.”

 _Oh, no you all did not._ She was just trying to get a rise out of him. He would not react.

Bran crossed his arms, wishing again as he did so that he were properly dry.

“Don’t be such a baby,” Arya said, clicking her tongue. She had a habit of doing that when she got impatient, going back all the way to when they were little and she was clicking her tongue at Bran to hurry up making his portion of the snowballs, lest Sansa spot them before they’d have time to hide. “If it’ll make you feel any better, it wasn’t just you. Rickon got right pissed. Made a pass at some girl before he threw up all over himself.”

 _That_ caught him by surprise. “What??”

“Yeah, well,” Arya said breezily, “it was some Redwyne girl. And she fancies him as well, seems like.”

“Even after the puking?”

“Oh, thankfully Robb had put a stop to their little sesh right before that. He swooped in and whisked him off with some excuse. Must’ve seen Rickon had a few too many. I wonder if he and Jon have built up a sixth sense by now to, you know, figure out _just_ when someone’s gone from having a good time to about-to-decorate-their-own-shoes-in-their-sick.”

“Oh.” That wasn’t so bad. Not great, but not so bad.

In fact, Bran told himself, it might even have ending up come out for the better, depending on how well or poorly it went with Desmera, and just how much sick there was. For his own sake, he hoped it went well and Rickon was pleased…not mortified. ‘ _Theon, it all goes back to Theon_ ,’ he reflected darkly before reminding himself that his behavior last night had _nothing whatsoever_ to do with Theon nor indeed any Theon-uttered words.

“Theon’s not coming to the brunch, is he?”

“No. But don’t you fret, he’ll be there tonight. I know you’re desperate to see him,” Arya said, and she managed to flash him a supercilious smile. Bran sneered back, making Arya snicker before she leaned forward in her seat, checking the signs for their exit.

“When was all this?” Bran asked

“Mmm, some time about 4:00.”

“4:00?!” He and Meera had already been well asleep, her shower and all…

Arya hit the indicators again and took the next ramp, sighing, “Huhhhh. What with having to practically carry Rickon up the stairs this morning and having to pick you up, I don’t know how I manage.”

With a grudging glance to the side, Bran saw the smug look on Arya’s face, shamefully pleased, approaching gleeful, that awesomely she’d come out last night well above the gossip fodder. She’d always resented being grouped in with Bran and Rickon as one of ‘the babies,’ ever vying to be included as one of the Stark family’s older ‘cool ones.’

“Well, congratulations to Robb, Jon, Sansa, and myself for being the real heroes of the evening and putting up with you lot. Special mention to Robb and Jon; they were in full-on babysitting mode. Not that you didn’t manage to give them the slip.” One hand reaching off the wheel, she made to pinch his cheek. Bran batted her away dully, thinking to himself.

It was only when he looked up that he realized just how much the surroundings had changed. Everything was a deal more green here. The roads were thin and near-empty. And off in the distance, sunbeat farms with miniature stone walls dappled the hillside below the horizon.

“Here’s the place,” Arya announced before they pulled into a gravel-stone car park. Beside them stood the bistro, quite in the middle of idyllic ‘nowhere,’ complete with its own sprawling orchards and fields behind it.

Once she’d parked and killed the engine, Bran unbuckled, saying smoothly, “You left out the part where your pal Gendry threw his beer on Robb.”

He was pleased to catch the way her eyes went wide then.

“What? No,” Arya blustered. And just that quick, her cheeks had already begun to redden.

“Oh, reallyyy?” Bran asked sly as he squeezed out of the jeep without waiting for a response.

 

 

His siblings were good about it. They would be.

He tried not to brood too openly at the thought of what looks he might face or the snide remarks he’d be subjected to. He and Arya walked through the entrance of the sunlit restaurant, full of polished oak and cream linens.

Bran knew at once that it had been Robb who’d chosen the place, either him or Sansa, just by how upscale it was. As of yet, it was only Robb and Sansa out of the Stark children who were successfully transitioning into a newer version of their parents. The other Starklings were more than comfortable for now to remain as they were, more at home in a pub than in a country club.

When Bran and Arya made their way to the back wall, joined their siblings at one of the larger tables, munching happily on fruit and pastries, they were greeted merely with the standard mass jeers over at their late arrival. They acknowledged and shrugged off the jeering with grace.

The only trace of snooping came in the form of Sansa, who raised her eyebrows significantly at Arya as both she and Bran sat down, and the nearly indiscernible nod Arya gave in return. The boys, all three of whom had been watching, quickly hid their smirks. Robb and Rickon occupied themselves by shoveling more food onto their plates, and Jon took a long drink from his glass of orange juice, staring out the window to the miles of bright orchards.

It was all sufficiently subtle enough to afford Bran the option to pretend he was not aware. Which he did, busying himself with buttering a slice of toast.

And it was kindly done. He knew he was not past any teasing for a long while. They would come at him later, individually, for skiving off so publicly, he who liked to remain so private. And they would joke about it among themselves too. But, seeing as they’d be aware of his apprehensions to rejoin the gang this morning, they would not make him face them as a group.

 

He couldn’t even blame them for joking behind his back. He had participated in the gossip mongering too; they all had. It was fun, like the time the rest of them (apart from Jon) gathered around Robb as he clued them in on the details of the latest of one of Jon and Ygritte’s many breakups.

Sansa repeated, rather taken aback, “She threw his plaque? The one he got for service?”

Robb nodded, basking in the wisdomly glow of their attention. “Chucked it right at his head. Good thing he ducked too because it took out a chunk of the wall.”

Arya did not like that. “She can’t do that. I ought to sort her out.”

But Robb had dismissed the notion. “Don’t do that. They’re already back together.”

 

Everyone looked nicely put together Bran noted with a stab of inadequacy. And, for one brief second, he was reminded of another time his siblings bunched round, all exhausted from the night before, chowing down on a late morning meal in some place they’d never before been. That time had also been a bright day amongst the valleys, but those had been the valleys of the Vale, not the Crownlands. And that time it had been Meera and Jojen, not Talisa, who joined them.

Talisa looked a splitting image of the Maiden, young and beautiful, and most definitely the only one there well rested. Her glossy hair was tied into a plait that trailed down one side. She sat in between Robb and Rickon snacking on a peach. When she glanced his way and caught his eye, she threw Bran a knowing, sympathetic smile.

At least she was here. Bran liked his brother’s girlfriend just as the rest of them did (and as their mother certainly did not).

“Hey, Talisa. When did you get back?”

Talisa made to finish chewing, waving her fingers hello in the meantime. When she did speak, her voice was light and cheery. “Hiya. Only been back for a few hours. Last night I had the chance to switch to an earlier flight so I thought might as well. And when I got in around 4:00 instead of 9:00, I didn’t expect Robb to actually respond when I texted him. And I _certainly_ didn’t expect to have these two to beat me to my luggage,” she added with an emphatic jerk of the head indicating Robb and Sansa. Robb’s eyebrows rose as if innocently perplexed, whereas Sansa merely shot Talisa a wink. “By the time I got through border control and made it all the way to baggage claim, I found these two passed out over several chairs, Robb resting his feet on the top of my suitcase.”

“I can recognize Talisa’s luggage because its design is actually nothing but one big picture of my face,” Robb nodded at Bran, smiling his pearly white smile. Talisa swatted his side, making him look over. “Isn’t that right, love? Though I don’t believe you’re correct on the part about me and Sansa being passed out.”

“At any rate,” Talisa continued, “you both had your energy well high enough during the way home.”

Robb frowned and said, more quietly, “We weren’t still drunk by that point. Were we?”

“Yes, you were.”

“Oh, yes, you most certainly _were_ ,” Jon cut in, adding his voice to Talisa’s.

The group began to argue amongst themselves, each in turning chiding someone else for poor behavior with Jon and Arya by far pouncing on Rickon more than anyone else and Rickon seemingly too hungover to do much but disagree stubbornly.

Bran smiled to himself watching them. Being back among the familiar dynamic ebbed away at the feeling of being center stage. Sure, occasional shade was thrown his way—vague remarks about how _some_ people didn’t count as _they_ weren’t there—but much less so than was being thrown at the rest of them, who were combing through the receipts of last night, in full or embellished detail, for Talisa’s amusement.

 

** Stark Manor **

For the ride home, Arya tailed behind Jon who drove the SUV, taking with her the two youngest. Bran in the front seat and Rickon, back seat, bickered with each other nonstop for nearly the entire ride, quibbling over differing accounts of last night, until at last Arya managed to get the music’s volume so high that the boys in the end had to give up their argument, no longer able to hear.

Once parked back at the house, Rickon leapt down from the jeep to sprint inside, wanting badly to return to sleep. The others followed, most intending to nap as well. However when Robb reached the door, he wheeled around and pointed disapprovingly at Bran. “Oh right, by the way,” he started.

Bran had to stop in his tracks before the front entrance steps, looking up to where his brother stood telling him off as Arya edged around him.

“Don’t go thinking your absence went unnoticed. We assured mum that you’re not a slut—” (Bran objected loudly, which was ignored and spoken over) “—merely that you couldn’t handle your alcohol—”

“Little tummy,” Arya grinned as she slipped inside.

“—and you threw up on Rickon. So Jojen took you home early so you could salvage what was left of your dignity.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Don’t worry, they didn’t say it quite like that,” Sansa whispered reassuringly on her way past.

Jon, who had been following after her, stopped, also on the top step with Robb. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did you not want use to say that? Well then, let’s go in and we can straighten things out right now.”

“Heyheyhey, I didn’t say—”

“Exactly,” Jon interrupted. “You didn’t say nothing, ‘cause you weren’t here. So don’t go grumbling about it now.”

Robb leaned his head past the threshold to check that no one inside the house was listening. Then he turned back to Bran with a most maddeningly superior expression and proclaimed mournfully, “To be honest, I didn’t do it for you. I did it for our poor mother. I just can’t bear to see the look of heartache on her face—” (Bran tried to plow his way past them but in unison Jon and Robb shunted him back) “—wondering where she went wrong to know her precious boy, her sweet babe—” (they shunted him back again, Jon tutting) “—is amounting to nothing more than a degenerate, a philanderer—”

“An ingrate,” Jon added.

“—caring not for our poor mother’s values. Family, duty, h—”

“Oh, **_shut_** _up_ ,” Talisa countered from behind Bran, startling him. “Bran will be thirty and well past this before you let us in this house.”

“You’re free to go in Talisa,” Jon said, flipping into the gracious host before he narrowed his eyes down to Bran again.

“Mm, thank you. As chance would have it, I’m going in with Bran.”

She hooked her arm around his and tugged him from his spot. Bran frowned at the mental comparison to Meera and the way she’d hooked her arm round his last night. Sansa, Meera, Arya to some extent, and now Talisa. They’d all dragged him off somewhere in the last 24 hours. ‘ _Why is it that I_ _’m always being dragged off by an older woman?_ ’ Bran mused quizzically as Talisa dragged him. He stumbled to keep up. ‘ _It can_ _’t be coincidence. I’m the only one in this group this keeps happening to._ ’

“And now you _try to steal my woman??_ ” Robb demanded.

Talisa made a snappish noise as they stalked past them. As they did, Robb ruffled Bran’s hair and Bran rebuffed him so irritably, the two older boys laughed.

“Oi, Brannikins,” Robb called after them. “Relax. We’re only taking the mickey.”

“Ignore them,” Talisa told him. “They’re only jealous, now that you’re the young one and they’re the old farts.”

 _Hmpfh. They_ _’d hate to have to be the younger kids._

Talisa had brought them down the front hall to where the house opened up into its different common rooms. It seemed Rickon and Arya had sped straight upstairs to sneak in whatever few hours of sleep they could before the family party. Sansa hadn’t yet though. She stood speaking with their mother in the sitting room.

Cat caught sight of them and Bran felt Talisa’s arm discretely disappear.

“Bran,” his mother exclaimed with a look of relief.

‘Sorry, mother,’ he might have said. But the signals were still taking too long to go from his brain to the rest of him so, instead, all he happened to do was drop his mouth open into a comical little ‘o.’

“Mother,” he managed finally when she’d made it half-way across the room towards him. His voice was a little high but at least it was steady.

“How have you been, how are you feeling?” Cat asked, wringing her son’s hands with hers. Behind them, he could hear Robb and Jon come in, shutting the front door. Cat’s eyes, Tully-blue, trailed upward. “What’s happened to your hair?”


	17. A Prat in Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talisa – 28. Robb, Jon – 27. Theon – 26. Meera – 25. Sansa – 24. Arya – 23. Jojen, Bran – 22. Rickon – 18.  
> Mood: Bloc Party - Kreuzberg

** Bran **

It was afternoon and preparations for the dinner were well underway.

Bran sat crouched over his work at the far end of the dining table—a grand mahogany thing, old like their family. Per Cat’s instructions, Bran was arranging the silverware. He bent his head forward, almost kissing the table, as he folded and re-folded each set into its own cloth napkin.

Setting the rest of the table had been left to Rickon. He made a circle about the room, dropping plates centered more or less before a seat. The heavy smacks of porcelain landing on tablecloth, admirably thick but not thick enough for that, kept puncturing the air, and jerking Bran out of concentration. On the fourth puncture, Bran scowled up at Rickon with something like a hiss. Before he could say anything, a whirl of auburn hair and Tully-blue dress told them of their mother’s reappearance.

“If you ruin your great grandfather’s table—” Cat began.

“Why do we have to do this, mum?” Rickon rubbed at his eyes with the back of a hand and bit back a yawn. “Can’t Jon or Arya or someone else do this?”

Cat’s thin mouth grew thinner. “Arya? Have you forgotten why we’re having dinner with the family tonight? And Jon will be picking up your Uncle Benjen. So you can remember that the next time you feel like speeding.”

She disappeared back to the kitchen, most likely to fetch them more work to do.

“She’s not fooling me,” Rickon whispered conspiratorially. “Tonight is about _her_ , not Arya.”

Bran said stiffly, not looking up, “Making us spend time with our family is not about _her_ , Rickon. Best you suck it up.”

Ignoring him, Rickon continued with a hint of pride in his voice, “And I got my permit back last month. Arya’s been letting me practice with her car. Don’t tell them though.”

At that Bran did look up from his work, one of his eyebrows raised in disapproval.

“I’m surprised Arya’s that careless with her car. Maybe she’s under the false impression mum and dad will replace it after you’ve crashed it.”

Rickon was quite unlike his brother for he had no fear of driving. Even if he liked the comforts of being chauffeured, Rickon also liked the feel of the wind in his hair.

He’d liked it too much. On his very first week of driving, he rear-ended another car when he’d been going too fast to come to a full stop. The parents had come down hard on him for that but not hard enough. It was only a couple weeks later Cat opened the mail to find a speeding ticket marked with the previous day. A ticket Rickon had conveniently forgotten to mention.

All that had been half a year ago by now but the parents’ ban was still on.

 

Catelyn popped back into view and planted herself underneath the arched doorway, muttering as she counted up seats.

“We’re missing one. Rickon, did you remember to set a plate for Theon?”

Aways to her side, Bran spluttered. “Theon? Why is he coming?”

“Didn’t I tell you?” Cat asked vaguely, distracted. Then she flit back into the kitchen.

“ _No_ , you didn’t.” Bran rose, finished with the silverware (by his original count at least) when Cat reappeared. She had her lips pursed, a plate in hand. Bran insisted, “You didn’t!”

She tutted and handed the plate across the table to Rickon. “Well, now you know. Return home when you’re supposed to and maybe you won’t miss out on what’s going.”

Their mother left the room again, Bran’s voice chasing after her. “Why is Theon invited? He’s not family. I thought this was a family thing.” All that came back in response was another tut. “Isn’t tonight about family? It’s Arya’s birthday.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” a sly voice behind him purred.

Bran whipped round to see Arya reclining against the dining room’s opposing entrance. She had an evil grin plastered across her face.

“It’ll be nice to see Theon. He’s always got such interesting stories.”

Arya’s eyes were glee, and Bran’s were daggers.

“What’s this?” Catelyn had reentered. The look on her face gave off the impression that she could _smell_ misdoing.

“Nothing,” Bran and Arya said in unison.

Her eyes narrowed.

“What’s this?” she prompted again, pointing back and forth between them. “What’s Theon done?”

“Mother, nothing,” Arya said assuringly, and then quickly to divert attention she asked, “Who else is coming?”

For one horrible moment, Bran pictured his mother saying the Reeds were coming. The picture arose fully formed. He could see it: Theon’s eyebrows hopping up and down during dinner as he attempted to edge his chair into the center of Bran’s view. Meera chewing her food in a diligent sort of way, looking quite at ease but refusing to glance his way all night. That would be up until the very moment she stepped out from their front door, from lit entrance to darkened night, and would send one tawdry wink his way with a smile. And meanwhile, Jojen would insist on remaining ignorant of it all. He’d probably spend the night maintaining eye contact with the ceiling.

The word clusterfuck came to mind.

But the Reeds were not coming. Thank the Mother’s mercy.

 

 

Even after night fell and all the family had arrived, dinner still took a while to get started what with all the loud hubbub of catching up. Though everyone had taken their seats and started eating, the room still rang with fifteen people’s simultaneous conversations drowning one another out.

Bran was glad of it, as so was Rickon beside him, to be seated well away from his Aunt Lysa and cousin Robin. A harassed-looking Robb had grumbled to him, “Gods, she’s a nightmare,” as he shrugged out from his coat in the entrance foyer having delivered the two from the train station.

Sometimes Bran felt sorry for his cousin, usually when he was not with him. When he was, Bran’s patience inevitably ran thin and his voice would change, becoming infused with snide, superior tones. That was until he’d catch a glimpse of his cousin, a flash of insecure self-awareness or Robin’s eyes cast low to the ground. And then his guilt would get the better of him and Bran would behave once more.

 

The bulk of dinner passed relatively in peace. Bran had found his appetite returned in full. And listening to his father, Uncle Benjen, and Jon talk about the Night’s Watch, Bran finally began to enjoy himself. He, Arya, and Rickon were a good audience, laughing at the rights parts and growing quiet on the next.

Bran slipped his phone from out his trouser pocket and checked its screen. No new messages. Popping the phone back, he twirled his fork upon his plate not really seeing it. He hadn’t been hoping for a message from Meera. He did not know and did not want to begin to think about what was supposed to be happening there. But Jojen…He and Jojen rarely passed an entire day without exchanging at least a text. Bran chewed on the inside of his lip, wishing he knew what he was meant to do.

Jojen had said he didn’t care, hadn’t he? He’d said he didn’t want to know and wouldn’t ask. Of course, Bran suspected gloomily, if they left together in front of him, he didn’t really need to ask.

“So,” came Uncle Brynden’s smokey voice, louder than all the others. “This is the Talisa Maegyr I’ve been hearing all about.” Uncle Brynden’s brow furrowed as he contemplated her head-on. “Well damned if you aren’t the most striking woman I’ve ever seen with mine own two eyes.” He stabbed a capon with his fork and poked it in the air towards her. “Beats me how you wound up with this ugly berk,” he said nodding at Robb.

“Umm,” Talisa hesitated with a glance between Brynden, still hunching over the table at her, and Robb, who had started chuckling.

“Uncle,” Catelyn said, freeing Talisa of the spotlight. “How is Edmure?”

Brynden let out a derisive grunt, not bothering to turn away. “Puh. That oaf? Don’t ask.”

Both Bran’s mother and his aunt narrowed their eyes though, Bran noted while he tossed back another swallow of spiced wine, the expressions could not have been more different.

Uncle Brynden carried on, not to be deterred. “Robb, you listen here.” Robb obeyed, eyebrows raised in some amusement. “Who knows how you managed to bag this one but take your blessings where you find ‘em. Not all men are cut out for an independent life like yours truly. Just look at your Uncle Edmure. Man grows dumber every year. It’s a rare talent but it will serve you well if you can _recognize_ when you’ve been dealt a winning hand.”

“I know when luck strikes, uncle,” Robb said speaking softly. His eyes twinkled, meeting Talisa’s across the table.

Uncle Brynden grunted which seemed to be a sign of some approval. “Jon,” he said abruptly instead, looking about. “Where are you? There. What about you then? Where’s that wildling girl of yours? Last I heard, she was quite the handful. Can’t say I’m surprised with what her folk are like. Nothing wrong with a bit of hot blood, I suppose, to keep you sharp.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Bran saw his mother rubbing her forehead.

Slowly, and not without grace, Jon said aloud to the table, “You may well have the truth of it. But I’m afraid she and I have split up.”

“For the sixtieth time,” Rickon mumbled though only Bran heard him.

Uncle Brynden swallowed the last of his wine before he said, “Ah, well. The current flows as it will. You then, Bran.”

Bran’s head snapped up from his plate. Fourteen pairs of eyes turned to land on him.

Bran had a habit of drifting, becoming lost in his own thoughts, so perhaps even under normal circumstances he might have made a gentle gasp being caught off guard. As it were, it was not air sucked down his throat but honeyed chicken. Bran gagged, coughing, and ducked his head forward. He spat half a bite onto his plate, helped by a sharp hand on the back from Arya.

Face red from embarrassment as well as choking now, he chanced a glance upward.

His parents and uncles regarded him curiously. Lysa had turned up her nose. Theon appeared utterly beside himself in the throes of silent laughter. But, had he not been in a state of mild panic, Bran might have noticed the rest of the Stark children were staring at him with shades of blossoming apprehension.

“What?? Me?” Bran croaked.

Uncle Brynden came back with a gruff, “Of course you,” sounding a bite impatient. “Who else?”

There was a dull buzzing blacking out Bran’s mind.

“Brynden,” Eddard said in a quiet voice. “Don’t hassle the kids. They’re at the age where they want those things left alone.”

“Nonsense. Am I hassling them?” Brynden shook his head, stubborn. “You want those with sense checking in on them at this age. They go down the wrong path now, most like they’ll be staying on it. They’ve all grown so much since last I saw them. I need to check in on my grand-nieces and -nephews while I still can. Before you know it, it will be one of you hosting a birthday dinner for your children.” Bran swallowed, blinking quickly past the blow to his mother’s sense of calm that’d surely been. “And don’t you worry about the nieces,” Brynden said pointing a brief finger to Sansa and Arya. “I’ll be coming back round to them in a minute.”

Arya shot a glance down their row to Sansa, both of them looking slightly bewildered.

Eddard did not object. Merely, he looked away in some indifference.

“Now then, Bran.”

 _Just answer and he_ _’ll move on to Rickon_. _Ignore Theon. Go on._

His brain strained to gather steam. What were the words he was going to say?

‘No?’

‘Yes?’

‘None of your business?’

“You were about to tell us. Any girl in your life?”

 _‘Nope. No girls in my life, just my sisters ha ha—’ What? What the hell is that? What’s wrong with you?_ ’

What did people say? He remembered Jojen, lying on his back on the floor, his eyes closed as he sang happily to the ceiling, ‘The dearest lady in my life is Ma-haaraaayyy Janeee.’

“Nope,” Bran said. The noise of it hung pathetically limp in the air.

“None? Not a girl?”

“No…” Bran’s leg was juggling beneath the table. He forced something of an apologetic smile. He wished everyone would stop looking at him.

“Or besides a girl?” Benjen supplied helpfully. Theon snickered under his breath.

“No,” Bran said again, growing quieter with every repetition. He’d wanted to say ‘still no’ as he thought this inquiry was getting fairly ridiculous now. How many times could he reiterate no? But he thought better of it.

Brynden considered him. “Hmm.”

“Well,” Talisa chirped in abruptly, speaking up, “I hadn’t started dating at Bran’s age either. I think that’s the smart thing to do. Better you set your mind to your career first before you start getting involved in someone else’s life.”

“That’s a fair point,” Benjen agreed to a general murmur of assent.

When Brynden finally moved next to Rickon, Bran glanced across him and met Talisa’s eyes. She winked at him.

 

 

After dinner came drinks.

‘ _I don_ _’t know why we even bother to move from one room to the other_ ,’ Bran grumbled morosely in his private thoughts as he eyed the excess of traditional birthday sweets and desserts on a buffet table that had been erected before the fireplace.

The noise in the sitting room was at a high. Ned and Uncle Benjen were rehashing old stories for Talisa’s benefit. Robb and Jon had already heard the stories half a hundred times but that did not stop them from hooting and giggling, so much so that Ned often had to repeat a detail here and there for Talisa.

Arya was absorbed in conversation with an old teacher of hers. Syrio Forel’s classes prevented him from joining them for dinner, but he came round during drinks well enough, always happy to see one of the finest of his former pupils.

To one side of the room, Sansa and Jeyne were whispering back and forth, unable to wait much longer to update each other on the sum of last night’s gossip. Not dissimilarly were Brynden and Catelyn were huddled closer by to where Bran stood, the two conversing in low voices over their shared objections harbored at the younger Tullys.

“Thing is, he’s always been like that,” Cat muttered darkly.

“No cure for being a moron.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as—”

“Oh yes you would, if you weren’t so damned respectful.”

“Maybe there is a _point_ to being respectful, uncle.”

“If there is, I can’t see it.”

Bran’s eyes continued to rove across the food as he was supposedly listening to Rickon’s complaints about their cousin.

The best thing about drinks was that Aunt Lysa had departed before they were underway and took her son with her.

“I mean,” Rickon was saying. “Mum tells me to suck it up because ‘this is his only chance for standard socialization with people his own age,’” he said finishing in an uncanny impression the way Cat’s voice grew stern when she was angry. “But you know what he’s like. I thought maybe it’d get better as we got older. But it barely has. He’s insufferable. Why is it always me he’s paired with, anyhow? He’s between our ages; it should be you half the time, don’t you think?”

“What? Oh, hmm, yeah.”

Rickon looked up from his dessert to frown at Bran.

“Oi,” Robb called across the room. “You two. Come here. We’re telling stories. You know the story when dad first met Howland?”

“You go on,” Cat called suddenly to Rickon. Bran turned to see their mother heading over to them. She waved Rickon onward and put a hand to the others to hold them off on Bran.

Rickon shuffled away, blithe as ever.

Having not missed the hint of worry in her eyes, Bran demurred her, “Mother…”

“Why aren’t you eating?”

Cat plucked a plate off the table.

“No, no. I’m alright, mum.”

“Don’t you like pigeon pie?”

“Nah,” someone said behind his shoulder, quiet, though not quite quiet enough. “Bran prefers fish pie.”

Leaning her head to see around him, Cat asked sharply, “What’s that?”

Theon’s eyes bugged wider when he realized Cat was speaking to him, and that both she and Bran had turned to face him. He hastened to finish chewing his own slice of the pie. “Oh, nothing. I just…” The prick had enough gall to grin openly at the icy glare he was receiving from Bran. “Well, I remember Bran telling me the other day. His favorite is fish pie. Weren’t you, Bran? Always up for that little joint that just opened around your place? From Essos, if I remember correctly—what was it, Myrish fish pie?”

“Fish pie’s alright,” Robb piped up, stepping round Cat and Bran to clap a hand down on Theon’s shoulder and shake him in a friendly manner if a bit rougher than one would normally shake a friend. “Not as good as crabs though by the way Theon tells it. And he’d be the expert. _Everyone_ in the Iron Island has crabs. Isn’t that so?”

Theon opened his mouth but Robb did not wait for a response. He leaned in, imparting to mother and brother both his characteristic winning smile.

“Mind if I borrow young Greyjoy for a moment? Theon, quick word.” With that, Robb marched them off, steering Theon by the shoulder.

Cat turned to look inquisitively up at her son. A muscle was still going in his jaw.

“…A bakery from Myr opened in your neighborhood?”

“Umm, yeah.” Bran accepted the plate still in Cat’s hands and moved to cut a piece of pigeon pie.

 

After that, Bran felt obligated to do a deal of socializing, earn himself some credit as well as get rid of the taste of Theon’s presumptuousness. It was only a good while later that Bran slipped out from the noise of the room. He made his way out the hall to the entrance foyer, rounded the corner, and headed down the other hallway offered there to escape at last into the bathroom. When he turned on the light, he caught his reflection staring back at him in the mirror.

He could see, although a finger traced below the jawline told him better, that the patchy fuzz across his cheeks had grown slightly worse throughout the day.

Again, Bran thought of Robb and Jon. Smiling broadly in their dumb beards. Of Theon ordering him not to think of them.

There was no use denying that the two of them looked nothing short of handsome, especially so when they laughed. Both in their own way. Doubled over, eyes crinkled. Their faces seemed fuller than his. Was that what made them so full of charm as well? Was it a full face that charm came from?

He remembered Meera and the way she swung her legs happily from where she sat atop his kitchen counter. Remembered the long cab ride to his place. The electric charge that had been in the air, filling all the open space between them wherever he wasn’t touching her. And how he had slid across the seat and put his arm around her. And her warmth, even as she shivered, flooding him.

Bran sighed and rubbed his eyes. Then his brow furrowed as he remembered another thing, something he had forgotten during the day amongst all the jabbering. He remembered Meera’s body pressed closed to his as they slept, and of waking up with those brown curls before him. Pulling her in close.

He studied his reflection with some disappointment. Why did he look so pale beneath the bathroom vanity light? This morning his reflection had a distinct look of panic; he had been rushing. So much had happened since, was still happening.

His reflection looked calmer now. Calmer, and sadder.

 

Stepping back into the hallway, Bran heard a sharp intake of breath. ‘ _Psst!_ ’

It was Theon. Theon crept towards him from the front door, Bran noted smelling heavily of cigarettes as his nose wrinkled.

“Look who it is,” Theon said in a low voice so as to not be overheard, smiling an oily smile. “Man of the hour.”

“Theon,” Bran sighed. “I’m tired.”

“Not surprised.” Theon nudged Bran with the butt of his elbow. Bran’s eyes grew narrow. “Fine, anyways, as that lot’s in the next room over there. I won’t hold you up. But just tell me real quick, how was it?”

Bran’s eyes rolled upwards. Maybe if he rolled them far enough, he’d never need look at Theon’s ridiculous face again. “Go _away_.”

“Oh, come on. No need to be so stingy, especially to me. Don’t I get a commission?”

“What?”

“A thank-you. I’m not asking for a blow-by-blow.” Theon grinned. “I’ve just been _really_ curious ever since we were back at school. Domeric never gave me and the lads _all_ the details. He left some very important details out.”

Bran repeated himself. “What?”

“Listen, the only reason I’m so curious, apart from you know, this whole mess,” Theon said with a circle of his hand summarizing Bran, “—is because nobody really knows that much about Crannogmen, do they? Bit of a mystery, aren’t they? Kind of First Men, kind of not. I’ve never been with one myself. Seem a bit _too_ natural, you know? Me, I say the wild’s got its merits _and_ its detractors. Like a bit of sprucing around the hedges myself. Honestly, I’m surprised haunted forests are your thing. But I don’t even know—maybe they’re not even like that. Maybe they accommodate modern upkeep.”

“Fuck _off_.”

“I’m gonna take that as a ‘no.’”

“Take that however you want to take it,” Bran snapped and he wrenched his shoulder free from the hand Theon had put there.

He was too tired to deal with Theon being Theon. Too tired from a day too long and too full. He had not been truly alone since the previous day, standing before the mirror in his bedroom inspecting the reflection, trying to make a go of it and gauge his own appearance before his siblings picked him up.

He’d stood there a long time wondering in the back of his mind if that night might be a night he’d be close to Meera again. If he might flirt with her, or laugh with her. Be around her in the dark, no self-consciousness for once.

Theon let his hand hang in the air, blinking at Bran as though shocked by his incivility.

“You know, you _could_ be a little more grateful and have a little less of a giant stick up your ass.”

“Grateful?!”

“Yeah, grateful. Or, lemme guess. Now that you’ve already done the deed with Miss Reed, you’re gonna act like you pulled all on your own. Because your strategy of hiding in the corner cowering behind your little brother was working so well.”

“Fuck **_off_** , Theon. You didn’t do anything. And don’t presume about last night.”

“Right,” Theon said, nodding at the floor, scratching the whiskers on his chin. In an aggrieved tone, he continued sardonically, “It’s true what they say about boys. The way they treat you post-bust’s not the same as pre-bust. You’ve changed.”

“Twat. Go to hell.” Bran made to get past him.

Theon watched him go as though affronted, scoffing.

“If that’s how bad you take that question, imagine how’d you blow your top off if I asked my original question whether Meera’s a moaner or of the screaming variety.”

Bran snapped around and Theon was sent back a step by a sharp shove to the shoulders. “Shut your mouth.”

“Oh, _come on_ ,” Theon groaned in exasperation. “How can you have a non-virgin knob but still have a virgin mouth? And don’t put your hands on me like that again, Whole Grain. If you were aiming for Stark honor, you missed it by a long shot. Landed right on asshole.”

“ _I_ _’m_ the asshole?”

“Well it’s certainly not me. Who’s the ass here? The man who helped you pop your cherry before it molded completely into virgin ashes or the idiot who can’t say thank you?”

“‘Thank you??’”

“You’re welcome. _Finally_.” Theon beamed brassily before he stumbled back a step from another shove. He returned with a matching push at Bran, pointing a finger next in his face. “ _Don_ _’t_ do that again, I’m warning you.”

“Get your grubby finger out of my face.”

“You’d think when you’d finally consummated your imaginary relationship with Meera Reed, when something very magical happened and you performed the ultimate act of love and put your P in a V, you might _for once_ not be the world’s biggest pissbaby. How about you do everyone a favor and learn to fucking chill? I’ll forget it, alright? Say you and Meera went home to play cards all night. Explains why the neighbors kept hearing ‘ _hit me!_ ’ anyways.”

Choosing to ignore that last part, Bran said hotly, “Don’t tell me to chill.”

“Say those who need to chill the most.”

“Stuff it. Are you even capable of ever closing your mouth?” Bran wished he sounded cool, authoritative. But his words began to spill over one another, a blockage of torrid air building inside his lungs. “Don’t come into my house, piss me off, and then tell me to chill.”

Theon spat his breath back out at him.

“This is not your house. This is your parents’ house. And you’d think that congratulations from one of your boys, the one responsible, wouldn’t be on the list of ‘things that piss you off.’ But, I forgot, _everything_ _’s_ on that list. No wonder Meera’s not interested in letting you get a sniff until alcohol’s replaced that whingy complex you call a personality.”

“Get fucked,” Bran said, lamenting how his voice sounded shaky. And not even with anger. It just sounded weak. “Or go home. Just get out of my house.”

Theon raked his eyes over Bran’s face, sizing him up.

“Nah, nah, nah. You know what, Branny boy?” Theon said, sneering. “Forget all I said last night. It isn’t in comparison to your brothers people aren’t interested in you. People just aren’t interested in _you_. They don’t like you because there’s nothing there to like.”

Bran shook his head, shaking off his words.

All he had to do was remember there was a room full of other people. People who were not Theon. That he should go back to. He deigned to look upon Theon’s face one last time and clenched shut his jaw.

Bran turned away again and crammed his eyes shut for a moment, burying all knowledge of Theon’s presence out of mind. And then he breathed. He took a step, then another, walking away.

“You know what, maybe you actually managed to bungle it even though you had the whole thing presented to you with a neat little bow tie on top. Maybe it was you never even got up in there in the first place and that’s why today you got a stick up your ass the size of Dorne. Maybe Meera sobered to her senses. Or maybe you just shot your wad on her thigh.”

Bran had about reached the foyer now. The more desperate and clumsy Theon’s attempts to get under his skin became, the easier it was to let them roll off him. _Words are wind._

“Or, hell, maybe Meera’s veins run too deep in the wild for you, Branny boy. What, with your fancy silverware and your mummy tucking in you into bed every night. Maybe, despite all the Stark talk of blood of the First Men, being ‘hard men of winter,’ you’re actually just a southern girl. Wet yourself, did you, when asked for goods you don’t know how to deliver? She like it up the ass or something?”

Bran’s feet came to a halt.

No one else was in the foyer. He could walk back to Theon. Or, he could return to the party.

_The party. Go back to the party._

He revolved slow on the spot. Bran stared at Theon, a strange silence filling his head.

And Theon was staring back at him. His beady eyes, faster than one would think but not as fast as his mouth. That mouth. A fucking catfish mouth. The ghost of a smile lingering across it.

It took Bran more than a moment or two to speak. When he did, his voice finally was steady.

“This is my parents’ house,” he said, agreeing. “My parents. Not yours. Why are you here, Theon?”

“I—”

“ _You_ _’re_ here,” Bran pushed onward as he paced slowly back down the hall, voice slightly raised for his words to steamroll right over Theon’s, “because my parents took pity on you that year we took you in. They felt sorry for you. And Robb still does. The year your father lost all rights to guardianship. My parents—they took you in because they didn’t want you to go the same way as your brothers.”

Bran stopped in front of him. There remained no threat of being interrupted now. Theon was listening, his mouth a hard line, no hint of play in his eyes anymore.

Bran pressed his advantage.

“But they needn’t have worried. You won’t end up like them. You, Theon, will end up just like your fa—”

The blow that sent him one, two steps sideways knocked his next thought clear from Bran’s mind. He steadied himself, and his eyes locked onto Theon’s.

Theon’s arm was still raised in the air from where he’d struck him with the underside of his elbow.

Bran rushed forward and Theon swung his arm back down to meet him. The wall was right behind them and they went colliding into it.

Both of them cursed under their breath, still trying not to be overheard.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Theon hissed.

Panting, Bran did his best to keep his voice low. “Get out. Get. the. fuck—”

“—the fuck off me.”

“You mangy piece of—”

“Bran?” cut in another voice, clearer, colder.

Bran and Theon froze, arms tangled.

If Bran had thought he couldn’t feel worse than he had just now, he was wrong. The color drained from his face, only seconds ago flushed bright pink. He stared up at the figure of his father, made something of a silhouette by the light of the entrance-way.

He heard his voice falter, “Father…”

Eddard studied the scene before him. His face was vacant, blank as a mask, apart from his eyes which were soaking up the image of his son.

Theon’s voice squeaked as he jumped back a step from Bran. “Mr. Stark. We were just—we were—”

“I know what you were just. I heard.”

Theon’s pupils had become so small, transforming him ever more into the catfish. Bran would have felt sorry for him, had he not been feeling so sorry for himself. Theon seemed to be making a kind of scratchy noise from high in his throat, like the mechanism behind his brain had malfunctioned and caught fire.

“Theon.” He spoke heavily to Theon though his grey eyes never lifted from his son’s brown ones. Eddard’s voice had the weight of his years behind it, deeper than either Theon’s or Bran’s. “It’s late. It’s best you get back to your parents.”

“Yes. Right you are, Ser—Mr. Stark.”

Theon stepped carefully away from them practically sliding against the wall in an attempt to shrink as far as possible away from Eddard Stark before he darted into the open space of the foyer, and made to collect his things and wish well his goodnights.

Bran’s mouth clamped shut so tightly, his jaw began to quiver. A boy of ten again.

He tried to maintain his father’s gaze but couldn’t, and he cast his eyes downward to his feet. After what seemed an age, Eddard simply told him, “I will speak to you, later.”

He turned away, leaving Bran alone to stare at the floor.

 

 

** Catelyn **

It had been a long day, but the day was not yet done. What could be thrown in the dishwasher had been. What could not was currently in the sink, waiting for the children to wash in the morning.

Brynden had retired in the guest room downstairs. It had been Cat’s plan to give Benjen Robb’s room and have Robb sleep on a cot in the den. However Benjen had refused flat out and he managed to ultimately get his way, insisting that he’d rather browse the den’s collection of books as opposed to Robb’s.

 _Talisa_ was in Sansa’s room, putting Sansa out and placing her and Arya begrudgingly together.

It made no matter what loose behavior might take place outside their home. Within their home, her children were her children. As long as Robb and Talisa did not have a home of their own (and last she checked, that did not extend to ‘shacking up’), they would not be sleeping as man as wife under her roof. Not as Eddard and Catelyn did. The one concession they had made was trusting the children to police themselves.

Cat and Ned had always respected their children’s privacy though their children might not agree. But their children were not aware just how often she and Ned abstained.

Come the day they had children of their own, then they would realize. Realize how naive it had been to honestly believe themselves to have pulled wool over their parents’ eyes.

Only this morning Ned and Cat had refrained from saying anything when awoken from their sleep by the ridiculous racket the kids had been making. Once Ned and Cat realized that the thuds, footfalls clomping up and down the stairs, and the over-loud shushing were in fact their children and not widely-inept burglars, all they had decided to do was exchange a small look. Half a smile. If anything, there were disappointed by their children’s clumsiness more than their behavior.

Cat knew her children had their secrets. She had had her own as a girl, secrets kept from her father. Her and Lysa. Kissing games with Peytr. But Cat had always had enough sense to recognize the difference between foolishness that was only a laugh and foolishness that was a mistake. True, Lysa hadn’t but none of the children had come from that vein. She trusted Robb and Sansa, and Jon as well, to keep the lot of them from going too far off the rails. There was no reason last night should be any different.

 

Cat massaged her fingers underneath the warm flow from the tap before she shut it off. She dabbed a finger into the miniature vat of almond oil, spreading it lightly upon her face. The lines beneath her eyes were not so bad. Not as bad as Ned’s, to be sure.

His work put too much stress on him. Too much for one person to carry. She made it her personal mission then to eliminate that of his burdens which she could. Those that came outside of work. But, her husband being her husband, Ned did not fail in rooting out still others.

When Cat had suggested that she, or the two of them together, might take on whatever it was weighing upon him now, he shook his head.

“Just me, Cat. Fathers must needs talk to their sons.”

Cat had not pushed the subject.

She rubbed her hands with lotion Sansa had given her on one Day of the Mother. It filled the room with the scent of pine needles. A Northern scent. Even down here in the south, her family was so stubbornly Northern, even their house smelled of the North as though her husband and children carried the North down with them in their very blood. The smell brought a smile to her lips.

With a sigh, she strode out through the empty master bedroom, out into the second floor hall.

 

Light from Bran’s room was spilling out onto the dark landing. _He_ _’s left his door open._

She found him sitting on his bed in his pajamas, his back against the wall. A book lay across his legs bent before him and Summer lay below his feet. The wolf-dog noticed her, even if Bran did not. His yellow eyes peaked open to verify what he had already known as Cat moved behind the wide crack of the door frame. The small movement was not enough to pull Bran out of his book.

He’d always loved stories. He used to love when his mother read them to him.

_He used to run up and grab a handful of my skirts. Around the knees where he could reach. Beg a story of Ser Duncan or the Kings of Winter._

The problem with children was that they forgot. They forgot the first part of their lives. In their eyes, they had only ever been who they were now. Wholly independent. Refined. They squirmed away from her with an imploring ‘ _mumm_ ’ when Cat reached out a hand to stroke their face, or to feel and reassure herself the solidness of their arm.

They remembered one way, and her another.

Bran turned a page in his book, still unaware of his surroundings. Of all her children, he had grown the most reserved. He spent much of his time within worlds created inside his head. Sitting blankly, masking it all to the world around him.

“Bran?” Cat called lightly from behind his door.

 

 

** Bran **

“May I come in?”

Bran’s family was not as flexible as other families might have been. Their way was the old way, and his mother did not need his permission to enter his room. But she asked anyways as a sign of respect.

Not that the gesture didn’t have other reasons as well. Ever since the incident several years back, when Cat had gone barging into Jon’s room unannounced, intending to tell him off for some now-forgotten reason, his mother had made it a point to knock and knock again before opening one of their doors.

Bran nodded, shutting his book and sitting with his back little higher against the wall.

Cat glided soft-footed across his small room to stand close beside his nightstand. She brushed at his hair idly with hand. Almost as if to feel his temperature. Perhaps just as a way to touch him at all.

He wished his mother didn’t look so worried. That he didn’t worry her.

“Your father wants to speak with you.”

“Oh.” It was not as though he thought he should feign surprise. “Okay.”

 _I don_ _’t think she knows. She’d be more upset if she knew._

 _Especially as it_ _’s Meera. She knows Meera. She can picture her._

Cat looked as though internally she were fighting over what to say. Eventually she decided on asking him gently, “Are you alright?”

“Yes, mum. I’m fine.” He felt a weight upon his chest as though each minute brought a new wave of a million things to feel. And fewer and fewer of them were fine. Summer let out a great and tired sigh by his feet.

Seeing his mother’s face, Bran said, voice stronger, fuller, “Really, mum. Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.” He was her son he reminded himself. Her son. He could be brave.

 

The door to his parents’ bedroom closed as his mother slipped behind it. Bran was left back near his own door.

He made his slow way towards his father’s solar. Apart from shades of moonlight seeping in through the windows, the only light now was an orange glow peeking out beneath the solar’s closed door. Bran took a long breath and opened it to step inside.

His father’s solar worked pretty much the same as the den downstairs. Only the children were less welcome here. This was a place for Eddard to brood undisturbed. He must have been brooding now though Bran could not see his face. Bran could only see the crackling fire, which spat red hot embers about the hearth, and two large blocks of shadows, the wingchairs made of leather that presided before it.

He closed the door and stole his way noiselessly across the room. The solar could not have been wider than his own small bedroom but with the bookshelves framed in darkness and no one else’s presence apart from the two of theirs, the room seemed to have extended several more feet Bran needed to cross to arrive at the far end.

He edged around the chairs, absorbed wave of warmth from the fire, and sat down in the watchful gaze of his father.

 _Seven hells. Seven bloody hells._ He shouldn’t be calling out to the new gods. It was the old gods his father knew. ‘Old gods,’ Bran thought dismally. ‘Spare me. Teach my father how to ease up.’

Eddard handed him a fat, crystal tumbler which Bran took, a splash of amber liquid waiting upon the bottom.

He must have retreated here shortly after dinner Bran realized. He had not changed. Father and son sat in the sparse light of the fire, Eddard in pleated trousers of tailored, worsted wool, and Bran in his cotton pajama bottoms.

Bran wore a t-shirt as well. Well-worn and stamped with the print of an old Winterfell sports team mascot. It had belonged to Robb, not Bran. Robb had given Bran the shirt when he’d grown out of it.

Holding the glass atop his knee, Bran felt a bit of a fool. Fine crystal resting jammies…“What is this?” he asked mildly.

“House Massey Whisky.” Eddard contemplated his own glass before he drank of it. “Bottled in Stonedance, single-malt. One of the finer brands, though who’s to say which one is best?”

Bran took a self-conscious sip. It went down his throat noisily when it triggered a bit of a cough. He fought to suppress it and was mostly successful. Where the liquid had gone, however, so too went fire. It prickled at his nose like pepper.

Giving no indication that he had noticed, Eddard finished, “As it so happens, this bottle is just a little older than you.”

“Dad—” Bran started tremulously.

His father turned to him and Bran was quelled merely by the weight of his gaze.

Eddard didn’t look angry. He didn’t look anything. He merely gazed with those stoic, grey eyes of his. That was probably worse.

Without his father projecting his emotions onto Bran, it was Bran’s own feelings that took shape. A big frothy mix it was though he could not quite say which feelings exactly it was composed of. Embarrassment took up a large portion it seemed, as well as trepidation. The bubbling fear of the spotlight. And also perhaps something else, something…protective. Private. Some fluid feeling, a bit too raw at the moment for all the nosy hands making a nab at it.

At long last his father sighed. “Bran. I owe you an apology.”

Bran nearly dropped the glass. He was immensely relieved that he didn’t.

“I’ve not done right by you, or your brother Rickon. I have been neglecting these duties too long. You’re already a man grown. But I,” Edward opened his eyes again and gazed upon his son, “…turned my eyes from it.”

_Oh god._

Was this what it was going to be? Was his father going to give him the talk? This could not have been a more humiliating following night to the one before. If Meera knew…If _anyone_ knew…He was twenty-two years old. He had graduated university; he had a job. And his father was giving him the talk.

“You haven’t neglected any duties,” Bran mumbled. “You—you talked to me already. About growing up.”

“No. Not in truth.”

 

His father had given him _a_ talk. Eddard had sat Bran down in this very solar at a time the boy could not have been much older than twelve.

All his father had done was glare angrily at him for a few moments while Bran sat in utter bewilderment, racking his brain for what he could have done. Then his dad gave an irritable grunt and began speaking in a foreboding, brusque manner.

“The girls in your class will start changing. Don’t make fun of them for it. Better yet, don’t mention it at all. You will start changing too.”

Twelve or twenty-two, Bran’s reaction had not varied by much.

_Oh goddd._

Eddard had not elaborated much more beyond that. He’d only told Bran to resist any and all urges until he really knew what he was doing, though he had failed to mention an estimate of when that might be.

Then he’d gone on to stumble onto the topic of pregnancy at which point Bran finally sunk so low, he gave in and simply pressed his face onto his knees.

Their talk had ended shortly after that. Though not until after Bran agreed to sit back up and pledge his father good behavior. His face had blushed so red, he was nearly purple, reciting sentences he felt ridiculous to say at twelve years old.

 

Eddard sighed. “I spoke to your brother Robb, in full, when he came of age. And then to Jon. Sometime later, your mother told me she had had a long talk with Sansa. Next it was Arya. It seemed you’d get younger and younger; we’d start earlier and earlier each year.” He looked at Bran with a weary sadness, and then shook his head. “You weren’t getting younger. You were the same age as your brothers when I spoke with them. _Really_ spoke to them. I figured…your brothers would speak to you.”

“They did.”

His older brothers had spoken to him _together_ and it had felt ridiculous all over again. But it had mercifully only been them. They were only brothers among the three of them. And neither of them made sex into a subject so grave a deal as their father.

Ned nodded.

“That’s good, in the least. And Rickon? They spoke with him?”

“I expect so…” Bran thought on it a moment before admitting, “I don’t know.” Why as that? Had Bran been a bad brother? He was already older by now than Robb and Jon had been when they gave him the talk. Not that he felt it. A little brother may live to be a hundred, but he will always be a little brother.

Pressing onward, Ned said, “Even so, they are not your father. Your brothers can offer you support. But your father must needs give you guidance. And in this, I have been neglecting. Up to this point, I have been doing you a disservice, Bran.” Bran was starting to see what Jojen meant when he joked that the Starks could be too dire on themselves. “But the real failure would be continuing to do so. So. There are some things I need to discuss with you.”

“Dad, if this is about what Theon said…”

Eddard waited but it appeared Bran had forgotten what came next in the sentence.

“Well…it’s _Theon_. He exaggerates. He’s…” Bran wanted to say ‘prat’ but even something so relatively harmless seemed incautiously vulgar at the present. “He’s an idiot. You can’t take what he says seriously.”

“Are you saying then that you have not slept with Meera Reed?”

Bran’s mouth fell open. To tell his father would be something of a betrayal to Meera. If he said otherwise, he’d be telling his father a downright lie.

Accepting Bran’s silence for an answer, Ned said patiently, “I am aware that Theon does not speak for you, that you may wish to speak for yourself, and that you have a right to privacy even from me. But, Bran, I will caution you on mindfulness. It would be wise for you to hear me. Not only have you slept with Meera, but Theon knows about it. Were I to assume you and Meera had intended Theon to be aware?”

Without pausing, Bran blurted, “No…”

“Then I might ask why are your private affairs not private? Is Theon like to respect your privacy? Is he like to respect Meera’s? All it takes is one person to whom you do not matter.”

Eddard place his glass down on the corner-table between them.

“It may be you do not consider whom you…engage in a romantic relationship—” ( _Old gods, help me or kill me. Do one at least._ ) “—a matter that warrants privacy. Though I don’t particularly believe that is the case here. I expect from you,” his father began, adding emphasis by punctuating every word, “as a Stark and as a man grown, that on matters which concern not only yourself, you will always heed and protect the integrity and privacy of another person.”

Bran closed his mouth, somewhat of a loss as what to say. It was like he were being painted as having done something wrong. He hadn’t…

“I do not pretend in believing you _or_ your brothers and sisters are of a mind with your mother and me on dating. We are well aware you think us old fashioned. And that these days all of you and your classmates prefer to share things with each other instantaneously.” Ned shifted in his seat, turning a inch or two to stare more directly at his son. “But it is not without reason we teach you discretion. _There are some things that are private._ There are some things that, when shared, were only ever meant to be shared in that time and with that person. Not made to spread beyond that, not by anyone else. You may not realize it, but breaking that trust, sharing intimate, private knowledge of someone to other people—”

“I haven’t! I would n—”

“—intentionally or unintentionally,” Eddard continued as though not interrupted, “can truly hurt someone. Even if you would not have thought it like to.”

 

A scene began to take shape in Bran’s imagination. What if Meera told somebody what he had said to her?

_“Meera…Fuck, Meera. I want you. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone.”_

At the flash of memory full in his ears, heat prickled up the back of Bran’s neck and filled his face. His heart drummed faster.

And the way he said it too…Thank the gods no one but Meera could know just how he sounded. His had been voice thick, choked on longing. Short, hot breaths. “ _Meera_.”

The scene continued to play out; Meera and Theon gossiping at a bar, giggling into their drinks. Theon whispering to Robb. Robb glancing towards him, Bran, before closing his eyes in disgrace.

 

Bran bit back shame and bile. He tore himself out from his imagination, back to in front of the fire where his father sat watching him.

“Father, I know. I’m not cavalier about these things. I’m not. Theon, what he—I…”

“I am not saying that you have done anything wrong. Far be it from me to take anything Theon Greyjoy says seriously or to assume knowledge of affairs I know not about. What I am saying, Bran, is that you’ve act brashly.”

Bran frowned at what was left of his drink. Had he? Or had everyone pounced on him to make one big fuss?

“Apart from Greyjoy’s involvement, I will remind you that Meera Reed is not only your friend, she’s also the friend of your brothers, of your sisters. Of your mother and of me. Whatever friendships or relationships come and go in your life, Meera will likely remain a figure in it. I’d hope you consider that making choices as you will.”

He had; so had Meera. They heeded it too much, far more than it deserved. When trying to find the sum of decisions in your head, you could not add up years and years of hypothetical choices. The calculations would fall apart. That path was folly…All you could do was be mindful in the present. And they had been, for the most part. Perhaps not so much at the club. But how mindful could you be four or five shots in?

 

 

For a day that had already been too long more than twice over, Bran should have been glad to put an end to it. But, hovering by the door of his bedroom, oddly enough he decided to postpone. Bran snatched his phone from off the nightstand and headed downstairs. Summer went trailing after him.

His bare feet stepped softly onto the cold tile of the kitchen, the hem of his pajamas grazing over the floor. Bran squinted when, with a flick of the light switch, the more-than-ample supply of overhead lights flooded the kitchen in white glow. He set about fetching the pitcher of water from the fridge.

Summer stayed back where hallway dissolved into kitchen. He sat down on his tail, studying his person with mild bemusement.

Bran didn’t want to be there in the house. He didn’t want to be in the home that had a sibling or parent in every room. He just wanted to be _alone_. But he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be in his flat either.

It might have been possible that what Bran really wanted was to return to last night. Step back into last night, to his flat, instead of his childhood bedroom that waited for him upstairs. He’d see Meera sitting up in his bed already under the blankets. See her extend her arms out, welcoming. Beckoning him to lie down and collapse in them as she held him close before poking fun at his weariness, earning from him a begrudging chuckle.

How had her day gone? Easier, he’d think. It was nearly 1:00 in the morning. Had she already gone to sleep? Had she thought about him before drifting off? Or was she still awake? Could it be that she was thinking about him now the same moment he was thinking of her?

Bran grabbed a glass, filled it up with water. He sat atop one of the barstools by the kitchen’s high counters. He took a drink and found it, gratefully, refreshing after the whisky. He rubbed a hand in his hair.

 _Is Theon like to respect your privacy? Is he like to respect Meera_ _’s?_

Bran guessed no.

Theon was someone who ridiculed people; he’d always been, as though he needed to. He ridiculed older boys for being older than him, younger boys for being younger than him. He ridiculed women for not having sex with him. Theon wanted to feel important and, what was worse, was constantly afraid that he wasn’t. So he made a lot of noise.

And because Bran had been so sensitive about Meera…and because he’s said what he had said…

Bran had gone for what he knew twisted at Theon most of all. So would Theon then go for Meera? Maybe he could post something—Bran didn’t know what—as some ploy of public shame. Take a go at Meera as a way of getting at Bran out of spite.

Theon often went out of his way to be an asshole.

That was not the _only_ version of Theon. Bran had known others. He knew a version of Theon even that could be nice. He had probably even witnessed some of that last night, but the subject Theon had been poking at was too sore for Bran to do anything but snap. And once he snapped, Theon grew sour.

 

There was the time when Bran had been eleven.

Bran was stood outside of Cerwyn Medical Facilities, swinging to and fro, pushing on and off his crutches while he waited to be picked up after two hours of physical therapy.

Robb’s car came tearing up the street to lurch to a halt alongside him. Jon’s head leaning out the passenger window lined up perfectly with Bran.

“Hiya, Bran,” said Jon serenely, taking some amusement at Bran’s startled face.

“Sorry!” came Robb’s beleaguered voice as he jumped out from the driver’s seat. He sprinted around the parked car. “We got held up. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Bran said, watching Robb hoist his backpack off the ground onto a shoulder. “I’ve only been out here for a minute.”

Bran brought himself to the car door, which Robb opened for him. Theon was sat there, sipping on a take-out drink. He blinked up at the sunlight spilling down on his face from the open door.

Robb punched him in the arm. “Get back in there, idiot.”

“Oi, oi. There are nicer ways to ask.”

“Move it. Okay, Bran, in you get.”

“How was P.T.?” Jon asked once Bran was settled and Robb climbing back behind the wheel.

“It was alright.”

“Bran,” Theon began in a philosophical tone staring off into the distance, “you ever have a really hot nurse or something who needs to, like, stretch your thighs?” Theon grappled at his thigh as way of demonstration.

Up in the front Jon said coolly, “He’s eleven.”

“What? Eleven year-olds don’t have dicks now? When you’d grow yours, Jon? Last month?”

“Shut it,” Robb and Jon said together, not looking back.

What would have been another car ride home took a turn when Jon sat up, his eyes fixed on a point up ahead as the car made its way down a residential lane.

“What?” Robb asked, trying not to take his eyes off the road. “What is it?”

“…It’s those fucking pricks from Blackmont.”

Theon roused from where he’d been reclining, craning his neck to scan off in the direction Jon was glowering. “Oh yeah? So, what are we doing?”

Robb’s eyes flit back and forth from the road to Jon. He asked Jon seriously, “Are we doing this, then?”

“Yeah,” Jon said. “We’re doing this.”

Robb steered the car alongside the sidewalk one block up.

“Doing what??” Bran asked who had no idea what was going on.

Robb threw the car into park. “Bran, you stay here.” Jon was already climbing out. “Jon,” Robb snapped sounding irritated, “don’t rush in without anyone behind you.”

“What’s happening??” Bran asked again.

“You _stay_ here and keep your head down.”

“Robb, what’s going on? What are you doing?”

“Stay.”

Already up on the sidewalk, Theon crouched down to poke his head back into the window. “We’ll be back in a sec’, Branny boy. Hang tight.” He winked encouragingly at him and ran off after Robb, who himself had already jogged off after Jon.

 

What Bran was able to glean from Robb’s muttering, Jon’s groaned comments, and Theon’s boasting cheers, the four lads they had just jumped had been something of bullies to Jon growing up. Bad blood existed between their family with Jon’s mother and, knowing that, they had been quick to take it out on Jon at school, ridiculing his mother and circumstances of her passing as a means to provoke Jon so they’d have a nice, clean excuse for beating him up.

Three against four were not good odds, but the boys had done alright. Theon had been in fact rather gallant, kicking one of the blokes off Robb before taking on the largest one—if kicking someone could be called gallant, which in this case seemed fair enough.

Even while he pressed one of the take-out napkins to his nose, soaking it in red, Theon giggled grinning broadly with a mouth slightly red with blood as well.

“That freak one—did you see the size of ‘em? Bet he didn’t think a little bloke like me could give him a run for his money. Piece of shit.”

Jon had a hand over his eye and did not move it.

Robb was murmuring, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Bran, still processing what had just happened, was merely staring around at the commotion taking place, wide-eyed.

“What’s up with you?” Theon asked to Robb. “Most people panic _before_ a fight.”

“We can’t go home like this. Where’s supposed to drop off Bran. We can’t—Look at us.”

“I’m okay,” Bran said. They did not need to baby him.

“Go round to mine,” Theon offered.

“Isn’t your dad home?”

“He won’t care. We can clean up there.” Theon lobbed the bloody napkin out his window, plucked up a new one, and stretched back in his seat again. His voice in a bit of a sing-song, he continued playfully, “We can buy makeup. Throw on some concealer. Your parents will be none the wiser. And our pores will have never looked better.”

 

That had been the only time Bran could remember he had been inside Theon’s house.

He was glad of it; Theon’s house sucked.

The windows of the Greyjoy house were so dusty, even the air was grey. Bran made the mistake of lingering by the living area as the older boys headed down the narrow hall to a bathroom at the end of it. Upon their arrival, Balon Greyjoy began muttering under his breath about delinquents being more trouble than their worth, not getting up from the craggy old chair he sat like a throne. Then he turned his stale eyes on Bran. “You. Why are you so clean? Stayed out of it? Left your friends to fight on their own?”

Propped up on crutches, Bran stared blankly down at Balon in his chair. “…I’m eleven.”

“Did I ask your age?”

“Bran,” Robb called, coming back down to the living room to retrieve him. “Help me clean Jon’s cut.”

Bran scuttled to make for the refuge of the hallway.

“Just wanted to get you away from that grimy old codger,” Robb told Bran in a low whisper. “We’ll be out of here in a sec’, just hang back here,” and he squeezed back into the over-crowded bathroom. Jon was wincing with a wet towel over his eye and when he took it off, Robb made a falling whistle to tell him it was bad.

“Why don’t ya soak your head mate?” Theon asked unhelpfully.

Their woes had not been over. There was no hiding Jon’s black eye or the cut on Robb’s bottom lip. Catelyn gave them both a sharp clout on the ear at the sight of them and when Eddard returned home, they were treated to more than a stern lecturing for over an hour. It was Cat who picked Bran up next from his subsequent P.T. sessions. Robb still had to earn back his parents’ trust for his car.

But later that same night, Robb and Jon stopped by Bran’s room before going to bed.

“Quick word,” Robb told him.

Bran had promised them earnestly, “I won’t tell mum or dad even if they ask me. I swear.”

“No, no,” Jon said. He remained standing while Robb sat down at the end of Bran’s bed. “It’s not that.”

They had wanted to explain themselves. And explain, “fighting is not cool, Bran. It’s not something that should be anywhere near the top of your list for how to resolve things.”

“Nor the middle, even.”

“It’s not something you should be proud of.”

Theon had seemed proud enough, almost giddy over his bloody nose and bruises. But Bran wondered, now that he thought back on it, maybe he had just been happy to be a part of something.

 

There was the time when Bran was seven.

He’d rode the bus from the private elementary school out to the suburbs of Winterfell to their station from which schoolchildren either walked home or were picked up.

His mother and older siblings were gone, left the North for Riverrun to attend her father’s funeral. Bran had been left behind. For another time in his life, he and Rickon were left behind.

As Rickon was still too young to go to school, Bran had rode the bus alone. It was his first time of ever doing so.

He had thought he knew the way home. It was something he walked nearly every day, Robb and Jon leading the way for him and Sansa and Arya. But when he jumped down from the bus and peered about in a circle, blinking out the rain that had begun to fall, splattering down on top of his head, Bran realized with a sinking feeling that he did not know. He wasn’t sure.

He got himself out of the street walking over to the curb, sat down, hide his head in his arms and begun to cry. It lacked much in the way of strategy. All he thought of were his brothers and sisters who weren’t there, their faces swimming inside his head.

Then Theon had seen him. Everyone else was running to get out of the rain. Theon strolled over unconcerned and plopped himself down on the curb beside Bran. While he waited, he tapped his hands upon his knees to a song that only he could hear.

It still took a while for Bran to finish crying. When he did, wiping his eyes, he looked curiously at Theon sitting next to him.

Theon turned with a good-natured smile and asked Bran casually, “You ready?”

Bran nodded. Theon popped up and the two of them set out on the way to the Starks’ house, Theon swinging his backpack between shoulder to shoulder, knowing the way. He had walked him up to the Stark gate.

“See ya tomorrow, man.”

“You don’t want to come up? My father will give you a ride home.”

“Nah,” Theon shrugged. “Your father kinda scares me. I’m good. Can’t get any wetter anyways. That’s what she said, am I right?” Theon waited for a response that did not come. “Right. Know your audience. Anyways. Later, little man.”

 

Bran stared down his glass of water. Did he feel bad about what he said to Theon?

_‘Post-bust.’ ‘Got up in there.’ ‘Like it up the ass.’_

Bran gripped the edge of the counter as though wishing he could knead it like dough. What was wrong with Theon? Why did he need so badly to wind him up? Why, because Bran wasn’t painting Theon as being the center of his world? Why did he talk about sex the way he did? Whenever he talked about it, everything felt dirty. The women especially.

 _It never comes off that way when I hear Robb or Jon talk about it. Why does Theon go out of his way to put stink on it? Nothing_ _’s making him. Why can’t he just be normal?_

When they’d said their goodbyes this morning, when Bran had suggested the idea it could happen again—her hand on the doorknob while she turned back towards him, her brown curls wafting in the movement. She lowered her eyes to the floor; the smile she made had been been shy.

Bran’s face crumpled and he buried it in his hands. Theon was only playing. And so what if he weren’t? _Words are wind._ No one cared, surely Meera least of all.

Bran rubbed at his forehead as though to smooth it out. Too many thoughts in too little space. Too many contingencies. If he could only think clearer, then maybe he could think at all.

All those prying eyes pecking. And no word from Jojen.

He wished he could have turned the corner and found himself in the Reed’s house. He’d sneak into Meera’s room where she’d still be up, and she would be surprised and delighted to see him. Everything’s okay, she’d remind him. She could remind him, nodding happily, cupping his neck, that she didn’t give two figs about Theon or anything Theon ever had to say. Remind him she knew what she was doing, and lean in to open his mouth with a kiss.

Would it be like that when next they saw each other? Would she even be happy to see him?

Bran’s hands were applying pressure to either side of his head as he tried to slow his breathing.

“Bran?”

Bran looked up.

“Oh,” he said, somewhat plainly. “Hi, Talisa.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> after 4 days straight of ridiculous setbacks (including a dog hijacking sleep from 'writing day' when she woke me up just to remind me loudly that she likes food despite having been fed by a not-yet-sleeping me 4 hours prior), my trackpad started getting all janky as i was getting ready to post. it's all good. checking into a hospital for insanity.  
> the bit after this is actually decently zesty, not as mopey.


	18. House Reed Party (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talisa – 28. Robb, Jon – 27. Theon – 26. Meera – 25. Sansa – 24. Arya – 23. Jojen, Bran – 22. Rickon – 18.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't want to split it up into two parts but increased hours at work means I'll have time to edit when I'm in hell ( •⌓•)

They, the young wolves, could make what jokes they liked. At present there lacked no shortage of source material.

In the grand scheme of things it was Robb and Jon who’d suffered the brunt of it. For when their oldest had begun creeping towards the early reaches of puberty, the younger Starklings jumped at the chance to have themselves some fun at their expense. For a spell there was nary a time where Robb or Jon, or even Sansa, could do so much as a receive a phone call from a co-ed without inviting an onslaught of snooping and intruding from the others, complete with ‘ooo’-ing noises and all.

It was only fitting therefore that when inevitably they themselves, the younger Starklings, followed down the same path, they fell target to their own brand of hell. On the whole that turned out to be baby-ing, cheek pinching, and all the sort of things which Robb dubbed sanctimoniously as ‘ego checking.’ And none had it so worse as Bran.

Arya was hard to cow. Even if she hadn’t been, what could the boys mock of her? She seldom sought to be a lady, and a fierceness forged in her from a lifetime’s underestimation meant that Arya ofttimes beat her brothers in their own pursuits. So in place of teasing, her brothers resorted to excluding her—save for Jon, the more sympathetic of the lot.

Indeed it had been that when kids all over the seven kingdoms were glued to their parents’ televisions playing the racing game Daario Wagon, Arya won champion so frequently at Daario, Robb had made a password for the console just to lock her out. When he persuaded the others not to tell her, she came up with the solution of chucking it entirely out an upper story window. And after that, they were not as fast to make a point of excluding her.

On the other hand, it might have been natural only for Rickon to have it hardest as the actual baby of the group. On occasion he took something personally, and he’d throw a fit of resentment in the form of a tantrum. But on the whole Rickon took the label of ‘baby’ and chose to wear it like armor, both depriving his siblings the joy of getting to him and (more importantly to Rickon) giving him leave to shrug responsibilities off and to guiltlessly pile privileges on.

Bran however did not embrace the baby label. The way he saw it, he was closer to the side of Robb and Jon than he was to Rickon. And if not with them, then with his sisters. It was only because of a very boring, very drawn-out joke that everyone grouped him and Rickon as the little pups. So it came as no surprise that Bran’s siblings’ favorite matters to tease him with were: his age, and his insecurities about his age.

But lo and behold, one night their own babyiest of baby brothers disappeared with, of all people, the dark and enigmatic miss Meera Reed. None apart from Jon had seen it coming. And none knew what to make of it.

Sure, out of all the siblings it was Bran who knew Meera best. But that was only natural; he’d spent half their teenage years at Jojen’s house and the other half Jojen had spent at theirs. That was when the other Starks saw Meera most while growing up besides the occasional double-family holiday. Meera knocking on their door, chewing gum and flashing a grin to greet them, come to take Jojen home.

Meera—hiding in plain sight all this time?

Even if Bran did have a crush on her, he struck not a one of them as Meera’s type. Not in the slightest.

When Meera had started her second year at prep, she’d had a bit of a fling with one of the boys in senior year. Robb, Jon, and Sansa would see the two of them, back in the days when Cat still drove them to and fro. They’d see Meera hopping onto the back of his motorbike after school seconds before they’d go blasting past in a roar of engine and obnoxious music. By the time Meera joined Robb in passing the drivers’ test, the Starks, now four, would see Meera speeding off in her own jeep blasting her own music, and the five teenagers would wave to one another as they made their way to Robb’s car. Indeed the Starklings had always been fond of Meera.

And for that matter they loved their brother deeply and truly, collectively never speaking of the time they came grimly close to losing him. For all their japes, they did not think their brother a craven or a fool. Surely, anyone to be graced by catching Bran’s fancy would be of highest caliber and should count themselves lucky.

It was merely that, well, whenever they pictured this girl of highest caliber, she’d always happened to be a sort of…female version of Bran.

Meera and Bran together. What were they to make of that? If anything.

 

** Sunday **

On the Sunday before all the Stark children were to return to their respective homes-away-from-home (with many a faithful promise to Cat they would return more often), Rickon came waltzing into Bran’s room uninvited. Bran had not made to object or ask Rickon what he was doing. All that happened when his door burst in was that Bran’s eyes had snapped up and, from where they peeked out just over the top of his novel, followed Rickon’s progress as he plopped himself down at the far end of the bed to lazily inspect this room which was much tidier than his.

“So,” Rickon began, not bothering with a ‘hello.’ “Are you and Meera together now?”

Bran pursed his lips. He returned his attention to _The Hedge Knight_ before he quipped a terse, short, “No.”

Rickon bobbed his head, acknowledging the answer, still thinking to himself.

“You botch it up?”

“ _Rickon_ ,” Bran growled. His eyes did not move off the page this time, but neither did they continue reading onward. “Don’t you go sticking your nose in my affairs.”

“You’re the one sticking ‘em under my nose.”

“I don’t recall conducting my affairs anywhere near you or your nose.”

Insincerely Rickon allowed, “Alright then,” in barely less than a sneer. He looked to the side, sizing his brother up with mild curiosity. “What _do_ you recall?”

Bran brought his book down on his lap so as to look Rickon in the face in full.

“More than you. And what I do recall is minding my own business.”

“Hmpfh. If that’s the way you wanna be.”

“It is.”

“Fine then.”

“Good.”

Rickon continued to survey Bran, his expression unchanged apart from slightly narrowed eyes. Then, deciding to give Bran up as a bad job, he asked flatly, “You gonna help me move some of my stuff down to uni next weekend still, right?”

“Mhmm,” Bran hummed, already reading again.

Poorly concealing a smirk Rickon added after a beat, “Maybe I’ll ask Meera myself next time I see her.”

But if there was one sibling Bran was sure he could take, it was Rickon.

“You do that,” he said coolly. “Oh, by the way, dad wants to have a long talk with you about you having sex.”

“What??” Rickon sprang off the bed. “Why! What did you do?!” With that he sprang out of Bran’s room back into his own, leaving Bran at last in peace.

 

 

> **15:28; Bran**
> 
> Hey man. Wanna go to Jasper’s for lunch on Tuesday?
> 
> **16:04; Jojen**
> 
> Cool. 2:00 tho I gotta work through noon

Bran and Jojen had lunch quite frequently, two or three times a week, given that they both worked in the downtown area of Coppersmith's Wynd.

Upon reading Jojen’s response Bran’s face broke into a smile and, perhaps the first time since Meera left his apartment over 24 hours ago, he felt more relieved than on edge. On Tuesday he and Jojen could go back to normal. Monday, however, he had something else he needed to do.

 

 

** Monday **

Bran left work early, hopping on the tram only to get off at a station he’d almost certainly never visited before.

The Greyjoys had once controlled the commercial seas of Westeros. Years of mismanagement however had cut away branch after branch, fleet after fleet until it was they ranked only as a fairly minor competitor in the maritime services market.

Theon’s sister Yara had taken over as managing director for Pyke Petro and Theon had been expecting to join her after university. Instead, he’d been shunted into a mid-management position within their smallest subdivision. When the job first came to him via directive of the board, Theon had complained bitterly to Robb and Jon.

“ _Inventories Manager_?? It’s insulting. Emasculating, really. My father’s doing it because he can’t stand the thought of me surpassing him as man of the family. As if he’s much of a man at all. The asswipe.”

“Hmm,” Jon mused thoughtfully. “Don’t you need a number of licensees to have Yara’s job? I seem to recall you failing to qualify due to a two-year ban from failing the drug test.”

“Bollocks, that it. They sprung that test on me, and without so much as a warning!”

Robb, who up until that point had decided to remain quiet, seemingly could no longer help but to comment, “Think a warning invalidates the point of a drug test, mate.”

Theon continued as though Robb had not said anything. “My father was behind it too, I’ll bet you anything. I didn’t _actually_ fail. Just some bloody technicality. So sod off.”

“Right,” Jon said, but still in that snidely smug tone he got whenever speaking truth to Theon. “You wouldn’t want the full story to ‘emasculate’ you.”

Robb had changed the subject pointedly.

 

Along the main pier of Fishmonger’s Square not far from the tram dwelled the patched-together office of SaltCliffe Fisheries. A remaining dreg of the Greyjoys’ former glory. One of the last vestiges of an empire gone to seed.

Bran was glad he arrived to the docks with time to spare. He’d only just begun to debate whether or not to buy an oyster or cockle off one of the fishmongers’ milling about when Theon emerged from the small office building. And quite a bit before 5:00. The only employee who’d left before him was a tired looking old woman who’d gone hobbling down the steps as fast as her stiff joints would go, off to catch the next passing tram.

Theon popped forth from the doors, bobbed down the short set of stairs with pep renewed.

The button-up he wore had short-sleeves and the leather of his briefcase clearly was uncared for, but the mere change of Theon’s dress from casual to professional no matter how lacking the effort, made him appear to Bran with slightly more of an upright tone than he usually saw. Theon had taken only a few steps onto the pier when Bran called over.

Stopping, he looked about. He spotted Bran with the exact opposite of enthusiasm. Bran saw Theon push his tongue in between his two rows of teeth, looking annoyed but also resigned. So Bran carried on, crossing the docks over to him, and asked, “A word?”

Theon slouched all at once. “Alright then,” he said not hiding the shadow of a grimace. He resettled his feet on the planks of wood that made the dock area floor. Bran got the hint. They were to have this conversation _here_ and would not be bothering with the to-do of entering one of the nearby cafés.

Bran heard it as the small pause became an ugly pause. He screwed up his concentration, trying to remember how this conversation had gone exactly when he practiced it in his head the way over here. In perhaps not the greatest example in eloquence, he led off with, “Uhh…”

Theon arched a brow.

“I wanted to say…” and Bran forced himself to look at Theon rather than at his own feet, “I shouldn’t have put my hands on you the other night.” _Even though you put your hands on me._

Some of the tightness went out from Theon’s jaw, though he still held himself rather farther away than would be considered ‘normal.’ And his head was leaned backwards in a way which looked less than comfortable, as if Theon were _determined_ to in no way needs look up at Bran although they were almost of a height with Bran leading by one inch or two.

“And for that I apologize…But obviously I didn’t come all the way out here just to tell you that pushing you was wrong.” Theon huffed loudly, clearly telling him to get on with it. “Listen. I don’t care what gossip you say about me. Really, I don’t. But I won’t have you using me as an excuse to spread rumors about Meera.”

“Gossip. Rumors,” Theon mumbled barely opening his mouth. “You say that like I’m inventing stuff.”

“Well…you _are_. As I will remind you, you and I were not together for the whole night. And we were not together for the later part, which is what you’ve been harping on about.”

Theon rolled his eyes. Then he aimed them downwards, fixating on the wooden planks below with eyes as wide as they would go, as though fighting the urge to say what he really wanted to say.

Hesitantly, Bran continued, “I need to know—”

“Yes, yes, yessssssss,” Theon cut in irritably. “I know, I know, _I know_. You two are dreadfully ashamed of your sinful—and yet still somehow—dorky behavior. I got it. Mum’s the word. Anyhow, your two twat brothers already threatened me quite enough about it. Your life’s not that interesting, Brannikins. And your geeky escapades have given me quite enough bother already.”

“So—”

“ **SO** neither your name nor Meera’s name shan’t ever cross my lips again,” Theon swore making a dramatic crisscross over his heart. “Nor shall they be texted on my phone. Nor shall I imply, or point out, or as much breathe in the direction of mentioning said alleged dorky coupling. On my honor as Ironborn.” Bran did not think that was honor to bet on but wisely he kept that to himself.

It was the best that he could hope for. Better even, since Theon was much more like to listen to Robb and Jon than to himself.

“Well…thank you.”

Theon threw him a nod, still cross.

Bran turned to leave. He stopped, chewing the inside of his lip.

“…I don’t like the way you talk,” he started slowly. Bran had not practiced this, but here found himself saying it all the same. “I don’t like the way you talk about other people. Especially women. And I don’t like the way you always go out of your way to have a go at me. But…”

And to Bran’s slight surprise, Theon seemed to be waiting. With what looked like his least annoyed expression so far.

“I know you were kind of looking out for me. In your own way. And I don’t want you to do it, but, well…Thanks.”

Theon’s eyes ran Bran up and down. Finally he sighed. “Yeahhh. Sure. You know, I ought to not give you any more useful advice considering the way you overreact. But anyways, here I go—not learning. Do us all a favor, mate, and get yourself laid more often. Then when it happens again— _if_ it happens again—it won’t be such a cataclysmic event for all of us. Eh?”

Bran produced a nod. He felt the cool relief of confrontation-over sweeping nicely through his veins, making him feel oddly shaky. “Mm. Noted.”

Theon batted the side of Bran’s arm with his empty-feeling suitcase and moved past him, making his on way to the station. Bran watched him go, quite willing to wait for the next tram so he could ride alone.

Theon turned back for a second, walking backwards as he called out with his shit-eating-grin back in full.

“Oi. Say hi to your sisters for me, won’t you?”

Theon turned to walk the right way round again, knowing that Bran would choose not to reply.

 

** Tuesday **

“I told Maynard that if he wants me to stay late he _has to pay me overtime_ ,” Jojen was finishing saying as Bran placed down his tray at their table and joined him. Jasper’s, the best of the little pot shops in Coppersmith's Wynd, was full-to-bursting with the noise and shuffling of the workday lunch rush in its cramped, under-sized space. But when Jojen arrived he’d found them a table, and when Bran arrived he’d found Jojen.

“Just charge overtime without his leave then. You’re only following protocol.”

“I know if I do he’s just gonna breathe fire down my neck.” Jojen sipped from his bowl of brown. He put on a high, whiny voice like a mouse. “ _WhatdidItellyouaboutputtingovertimehoursonyourtimesheet? Youknowwe_ _’renotallowedblahblahblah._ ”

Bran hummed in thought as he unwrapped a sandwich over his tray. “Put a laxative in his tea maybe.”

First, Jojen cracked a wee smile. It persisted until it had Jojen positively cackling at the surface of his soup, enjoying the scenario he’d conjured in his head no doubt.

After laughing the image out and taking another sip, he asked casually, “How’s your family?”

“They’re good. Mum’s a bit stressed.”

“I heard Talisa stayed over.”

“Yeah.”

Bran thought on it. He realized he didn’t know if that was the first time something of the sort had ever happened. It didn’t feel like much, what with her being given Sansa’s room and the fact that she and Robb practically were living together nowadays back in the North.

He shrugged. “She’ll probably get used to it eventually, to Robb and Talisa.”

Jojen looked doubtful. “Hmm. We’ll see. Your mum can be stubborn so much, you’d think she was born Stark.”

“Oh, Tullys can be stubborn.”

Bran snuck a furtive glance to Jojen still hunched over his soup, unhurriedly drinking spoonfuls.

“So,” Bran began in a cool enough voice although his ears felt hot. “Are we all good, from—uh—the weekend?”

Jojen’s half-smile deflated to a frown. He straightened up.

It occurred to Bran he was not someone who ought to take on playing and winning games through bluffing.

Jojen pushed the subject away with a deliberate hand. “I told you. Whatever’s between y’all is between y’all. I don’t want to know. I’m not gonna tell you what to do but I want to hear _n-o-n-e_ of it. A line has been drawn in the sand, a line that shall not be crossed.”

“You’re sure?”

“Oh yeah, I’m sure. Nonnegotiable. Because once you start explaining one little thing here or a quick little question about something over there, I know your side. And next I’m hearing Meera’s side. And now I know stuff from _your_ side that she doesn’t know. And I know stuff from her side, you don’t know. And then maybe I’ll just clear this one thing up. And now all of a sudden I’m a spy; I’m screwing over my sister or my friend or both and I _will. not. have. it._ ”

‘Calm down,’ Bran might have said. Instead, he said, “No one’s calling you a spy, Jojen.”

Jojen tapped a forefinger on his nose. “Exactly.”

 _Fair enough_. “So…we’re cool?”

“We’re abso-fucking-lutely peachy keen. Lest you keep yammering.”

“Cool,” Bran said, and he tried to sound it. But he could not restrain the smile of total, eclipsing sweet relief, so he bit into his sandwich and found that it had become a touch too dry.

 

 

 ** The Hunter ** ** ’s Moon **

Bran and Meera had left things with an understanding that what happened on the night of Arya’s birthday might happen again, should the moment present itself. The moment being one in which both of them were in the same city, unattached, and (perhaps) feeling a smidge bored.

As far as Bran knew, such an occasion might take another couple of years to come around again, if indeed at all. After all it was entirely possible that tomorrow Meera would discover her next Tyrek. But only this time round it would stick. And he, Bran, would never find Meera bored and unattached again.

But as fate would have it, such pessimism turned out to be unwarranted.

 

When the kids had all been young, the Reed family hosted parties each year around the time of the Hunter’s Moon. Traditionally First Men celebrated the Harvest Moon, usually with a bit of a cook-out. Crannogmen were different however. Relying less on harvests than on hunting, it was the Hunter’s Moon they celebrated. And being of two of the large and prominent Crannog families, the Reeds’ celebration served to unite a lot more than a good chunk of the Neck.

When Howland and Jyana split the parties had stopped, what with all the ‘adjustings’ going on. But that was seven years ago. This year was the year, both parents decided, to reinstate the old parties and gather friends and family once more.

It went without saying (though it _was_ said) that the Stark family had a standing open invitation as always. More specifically Ned and Bran were not only invited, but expected. Bran’s face reddened when his father reminded him this when he and his sisters came home for dinner. And it reddened worse when Bran realized it would be him, his father, and his mother representing for the Starks at the party as a group.

Three days on, his phone buzzed upon the nightstand. Bran was changing for the third, and final, time that day finally pulling on the cool comfort of pajamas. Picking the phone up, he found it to be one of the rare texts he ever receives from Meera.

> **23:10; Meera**
> 
> Just so you know, there’s a dress code for hunters moon thing
> 
> **23:13; Meera**
> 
> It’s naked

Bran pressed his lips together to force a frown.

> **23:18; Bran**
> 
> Be gone, woman
> 
> **23:25; Meera**
> 
> I will of course be checking you dressed to code      

It was not as though he could deny the definable upswing in his mood that month.

But neither could Bran say that he was fully looking forward to the Reed’s party. He did want more time with Meera but the kind he hand in mind was not the sort they were like to get.

Bran wanted time with Meera that was time with her and her alone.

On the day he didn’t arrive with his parents but rather a few hours ahead. Because Jojen had asked for Bran’s help in setting up, he set out from the nearest bus stop well before the afternoon when the party would actually kick off.

It was Jyana who opened the door for him when Bran arrived. Beaming, she greeted him with a warm enthusiasm, a little reminiscent of Meera’s to be honest.

Jyana almost had the same springy locks as Meera. But unlike her daughter’s, Jyana’s hair grew tamer under its own weight when she let it grow. It fell in lazy ringlets, settled over her shoulders in large rounded waves.

Seeing their mum again after a good few years caught Bran a little by surprise. She looked quite the same as when he’d seen her last (of course she did…she was the same person) if only a bit trimmer and aged somewhat around the eyes. The familiarity of the image, unwittingly forgotten, startled Bran for half a second.

He faltered before snapping out of it and returning the hug he’d been swept into.

“Hiii. Nice to see you again, Mrsss…” Bran began before he trailed off in a sort of dumb panic. The only way Jojen ever referred to Jyana was ‘my mum.’ Jyana was quite thoroughly defined in Bran’s head as ‘Jojen and Meera’s mum.’ Did he even know her house name?

Jyana waved it off still cheerful and uncomfortably it came to Bran again to recognize glimpses of Meera within her mother. “‘Jyana’s fine, dear.” Bran donned an agreeable, tentative sort of smile as Jyana took her time inspecting him. “You and Jojen,” she concluded, shaking her head. “You’ve grown at least a foot taller since I saw you last. He’s up in his room. Is that why you came by?”

“Yeah. He asked me to help him with—well, I don’t know what exactly.”

Jyana stepped back to beckon him in, still smiling with a happy sort of nostalgia. “Always the same, you two, aren’t you? Go on, upstairs you go.”

 

 

Bran found Jojen’s door slightly ajar. Behind it, Jojen could be glimpsed sitting on the floor before his bed, his back against its frame while he concentrated on folding something on his lap. Bran edged through the door’s open gap and uttered a soft ‘hey, man.’

Jojen peered up from his work. He shot Bran back a responding nod. “Hey.”

At present Jojen’s room was in a height of messiness. Four or five trays were strewn above and around the low-rise table in the center of the room, and in each of them was nestled a dozen or so bundles of leaves bound in twine.

In the Crannog celebration, children ‘hunted’ rice dumplings that had been pocketed inside leaves of reed and hidden. The origins of the tradition stemmed far back, almost to the Age of Heroes, to a tale of Crannogmen and how, using only the light by the hunter’s moon, they survived a harvest-less autumn. With the strange reflections of moon on water, the gods had led them to a cave where they discovered cache after cache a never-ending supply of fish eggs.

In practice, however, children proved less found of caviar than their hungry ancestors. So today it was dumplings filled instead with rice they hunted. Taking in the pile of moss-colored leaves by Jojen’s one hand and an earthenware pot of stick rice by his other, Bran supposed it was this Jojen had called for him to help.

Sliding into the room, Bran spotted Meera sitting on Jojen’s desk chair, balancing it precariously on its hind legs. She had a leaf in hand as well but unlike Jojen’s, which he had now taken to folding carefully over a glob of rice in its center, Meera’s was empty and flat, and it was shredded. She sat staring off into space, tearing from the leaf long strips, crumpling them between two fingers, only to lob the tiny leaf-balls at the dustbin across the room.

“Oh,” Bran let out automatically. “Hi, Meera.”

“Helloo,” she chimed back. Her tone was light enough, amiable, though her eyes had not budged from where they were glued, in an unfocused sort of way, a couple inches above her target.

On the floor Jojen pursed his lips, as if the dumpling he was working on at the moment was rather rude. Securing its knot, he muttered under his breath, “I hope you two aren’t about to start sucking face in my room. Again.”

“Is that where your mind’s at?” Meera asked, her eyes coming back into focus. She brandished her tattered leaf at him. “How many times must I tell you? _Stop_ trying to live vicariously through me.”

Bran almost laughed. Fortunately he succeeded in hastily suppressing it to a cough. Pretending not to notice Jojen staring daggers, Bran asked lightly, “So, shall I just…?” as he sat down and grabbed a leaf off the stack.

Meera let her chair fall onto all fours. She jumped up announcing, “Okay.” Absentmindedly, she patted at the outsides of her shorts pockets. Bran had noticed those shorts when he came in.

The shorts Meera was wearing were of Dondarrion make, the overpriced sport brand which had become something of a trend in recent years. Sansa had workout clothes from them, Bran knew, and he felt vaguely aware that Robb and Rickon both had one or two things of theirs—shoes or shorts or whatnot. The brand was easy to recognize because Dondarrion clothes, or ‘Dondons’ as they were insipidly referred to, almost always consisted of a variation of a strikingly white white and an obnoxiously purple purple.

Bran didn’t like them. How could clothes so ugly be so expensive? He’d failed to be persuaded when Sansa even went out of her way to explain to her dim brother the ins and outs of fashion. No matter what Sansa said about ‘ironic self-awareness,’ the fact remained: ugly clothes were ugly clothes.

But whatever unfortunate zorse-stripped pattern Meera’s shorts had, Bran could not say he did not like their shape.

“Time to get ready,” Meera said, sounding tired, apparently to the room at large. She stepped lightly over one of the trays, over Bran’s legs one by one, snaking her way to reach the bookcase along the wall. “Jojen, I’m gonna help myself to some of your stash.”

Meera plucked up an older wooden box, woven with hemp inlay, Jojen’s weed box, and placed it a shelf higher up closer to her hands.

She opened it to inspect the insides, apparently to Jojen’s displeasure. He barked, “Hey!” watching dismayed from the floor.

Meera weighed her options before she reached in and retrieved from the box’s slotted grooves a joint, one of those that Jojen had pre-rolled.

“What are you doing?” he demanded still.

Meera complained in a bored voice, “It’s one joint, don’t be stingy.” She skimmed her fingers across the paper re-smoothening it.

“Are you serious?”

“No one’s even here yet, Joj.”

“You’re going to get high. Now.”

“I’m not getting high—it’s one joint.”

Balancing the joint between her lips, Meera flipped open Jojen’s lighter, hatching from it a tiny but determined little flame that she tipped to the end of the cigarette.

On the floor, Jojen made a controlled kind of yell.

“Ahhhhhh—fuck you think you’re doing?”

“What?” At such ill-treatment, her eyes grew even more round as she turned to face them. Her voice had grown husky as well in the smoke, so Meera blew the rest out to speak in her normal register. “I’m supposed to face that lot sober?”

“What, don’t you like your family?” Bran found himself interjecting. The two Reeds turned to look at him, quite as though they had forgotten he was there.

It was Meera who answered.

“I love my family. ‘Like’ though…that’s a strong word.” She took another drag before raising the cigarette in his direction. “Would you like to partake?”

Bran hastened to turn down the offer, shaking his hand and his head and returning promptly to the bundle of rice and leaves he was managing to mangle.

He regretted speaking in the first place, wanting to remove himself from any Jojen versus Meera equation.

Jojen asked in a voice made lofty with disapproval, “Can’t you give mum and dad a break for once? Just this once?”

“Oh, for fuckssake.”

The mood in Meera’s tone snapped down like a whip. Bran did not look. If anything, he fixed his stare to the reed leaf in his lap harder.

“Fuck it,” she snapped. “Fuck me, right, for being such a brat that I wanna have a buzz before this whole entire day of a ridiculous stupid party? Not like dad or mum, or the rest of those fuckers from the Neck, aren’t gonna be drinking obnoxiously the whole time and be well unbearable by this afternoon? No—it’s me. _I_ ’m the one who’s a bitch.”

Bran pulled himself out of the way veering in as Meera stalked past. Joint bit between her lips, she charged out past the door. They heard her door shut across the hall.

Bran did not say anything. His eyes, wide, only moved slowly. Slowly and steadily, up from the floor to check on Jojen.

Jojen had still been staring at the empty doorframe to his room, his eyes heated. They shifted that second and met Bran’s.

Bran offered, “Umm…”

But whatever wisdom might have come after, Jojen did not want to hear it. He shook his head.

He began work on the next dumpling. Scooping up the helping of rice and plunking it into the center of a leaf, he sighed wearily and said, “She always gets like this.”

“…She does?”

Jojen glanced at Bran. Then at the misshaped ball, more mangled, Bran was trying to ‘fix’ by applying rows and rows of twine.

He handed Bran the scissors. “Here. Finish that one up. Tying up every inch of its surface won’t improve it any.”

Bran took the scissors and the string away from the mother-strand and murmured, “Thanks.”

It wasn’t until Jojen had finished his dumpling and moved on to start another that he elaborated any further.

“Meera hates obligated time with family. She’s bad around mum in particular and when the two of them are together, mum and dad, she’s worse.”

“Oh.”

Wrapping and plopping down this last bundle of his, Jojen leaned back with a sigh to rub at his forehead with a rice-sticky hand.

Bran considered his latest attempt. It was still woefully bad compared to Jojen’s, though not as bad as his first. ‘ _I haven_ _’t done anything wrong_ ,’ he reminded himself. _Jojen himself agrees with me._

Still though. Watching Jojen sat across from him, contemplating his own knees, Bran didn’t feel exactly good. Not that he was guilty. But he did wish Jojen could talk to him.

Logic may tell him otherwise but still. Still something inside his chest—in the deep spaces thought couldn’t reach—something there felt selfish.

“Hey, man, if you wanna talk—”

Jojen fluttered out of his own private thoughts, quite alert quite fast.

“Bran _._ Thanks, mate. But I’m good.”

“I know. I was just—”

“ _Bro_? Line _._ in. the sand.”

And so Bran was quick to nod, not arguing.

 

After that they’d had to hurry. What cousins the Reeds had close to King’s Landing arrived first. Jojen’s parents set them to assisting both him and Bran with the task of hiding all the dozens of bound-dumplings throughout the grounds.

“This can’t be very hygienic,” Bran mumbled skeptically as he placed one of the wrapped bundles at the foot of a tree.

But Jojen only claimed, “Survival is not hygienic,” as though that made any sense.

He and his Crannog cousins insisted on including three or four trick dumplings hidden amongst the lot, wrapped just like the others but containing within their globs of rice some secret caviar. And again Jojen would hear none of Bran’s objections, maintaining stubbornly, “If you can’t smell the difference between smelly fish roe and rice then you haven’t truly hunted, have you?”

A trickle of guests had started by the time they were nearly done. Within an hour, the trickle became a flood unti at last the party cruised well into full swing.

When his parents arrived, Bran was shepherded over and made to shake hands with Howland and re-hug Jyana as though it were his parents were introducing him. Howland and Jyana enjoyed themselves in fanning over how much Bran and Jojen had grown, the way parents loved to do, largely for Ned and Cat’s benefit. Bran waited it out patiently, staring intentionally at either Howland or Jyana to avoid interpreting anything that may or may not be there in the gaze of his father.

Of course, Meera happened to parade by and was summarily summoned to come join them.

As he figured she would though, Meera carried herself perfectly naturally. She greeted the Starks and exchanged fond pleasantries, chatting warmly with his folks. Nevertheless he felt a secret cringe when Meera moved from hugging his mother hello to hugging his father, and Bran was glad he had not told her about the spot of bother with Theon then.

 

 

It took longer for Bran to be dismissed than it did for Meera, for Meera had other cousins and old friends she needed to catch up with.

When he finally was released, Bran trailed out back into the yard that opened up to the expanse of the Reeds’ grounds. The land was slightly sloped, bespeckled with random shrubs and the sparse beginnings of a wood. It was there that Jojen was leading the vast swarms of children in the hunt or in their play.

Bran participated by ways of generally lingering about. He hung back, leaning against a tree to ‘observe’ (also known as party speak for stand around having nothing to do), enjoying himself a beer that had been made nicely crisp by bucket of ice it came from, refreshing to drink in the late autumn heat. Besides the bottle of beer, he worked as well on a packet of crisps, taking it turns to switch from one to the other.

Bran had considered the array of foods he’d found spread across three tables, crammed in the back corner of the Reeds’ kitchen. All distinctly Crannog foods.

Roasted mushrooms, nuts, duck eggs—boiled or salted, duck wings, frog legs, red bean paste, and propped up on a plate cushioned with reeds for tradition: a healthy amount of sticky rice and caviar. Bran had surveyed the spread from a bit of a distance, his lack of an appetite solidifying all the more. But below the table he’d spied a pile of snacks more familiar to the rest of the Seven Kingdoms and snatched from it the wee packet of crisps.

“Hunt _your own dumplings_ ,” Jojen was calling. “No stealing someone else’s once they’ve found it.”

A younger girl shouted in return, “That’s not fair, then someone can just claim ‘em all with their eyes and not do a bit of work.” She was perched at the very the foot of a tree, yanking her brother’s leg in an attempt to pull him down while he was trying his best to kick her off.

Jojen muttered, “Eh, whatever,” though not loud enough for anyone to hear.

It was then Bran felt a quick poke on the shoulder. He turned to look, but the blur which jabbed him had already dodged out around to his other side. “Oh,” he said simply, greeted by her familiar happy grin. “Hello, Meera.”

It took no more than a second to see that, here in the outdoors and far from her parents, Meera’s mood had lightened up and up to the point where it was now. The clear and crystal sky of blue up above, dazzling as it maybe, paled plain as day to the bright that Bran could see in the way Meera was smiling now.

She eyed the plastic packet in his hands.

“Ah. I see you’re really branching out there with the food.”

“What? Oh, yeah.” He regarded the opened little bag of Golden Tooth Classic Potato Crisps. Quite as generic as The Seven themselves. “I know. Blowing everyone’s minds.”

Meera shrugged her shoulders together in an affable sort of way. A way which struck Bran as rather—dare he say it?—cute. (He dare not, at least not to her, as he didn’t think she much cared for that word.) “Enjoying the party?”

Without thinking he replied, “Yeah.” Then, perhaps to make up for the audible lack of enthusiasm in his voice, he added in a smaller voice, “Good do.”

There was something about the twinkle in her eyes that suggested Meera had followed every bit of that. Visited with him every station along the way his train of thought.

She bounced a little on the balls of her feet, surveying the wide grounds with less interest. Sardonic, she proposed, “Could probably use more guests though?” When all Bran did was nod and eat another crisp, she nudged at him with the tip of her shoulder. “Too small a crowd for you? Hate to slag it off, but alas it’s no Nightfort?”

“To be honest,” Bran started in reply as he tried to step out of her shoulder’s range, though she was making that difficult what with stepping on his foot to root him to the spot. “Since Arya’s birthday, any party that doesn’t have everyone’s entire family in attendance will inevitably be a let down. Do you not have a few more cousins that could squeeze in? I’d hate to talk with you without at least four family members present, it seems improper.”

Meera chuckled noiselessly.

The mention of Arya’s party jerked the more nervous side of Bran awake; only belatedly did he realize the undertone to his joke. ‘ _How witty_ ,’ he congratulated himself wryly.

As though by obligation, his thoughts raced through at least one lap of all the places he most did not want to go. Not right now at least. Places like the way his body remembered what it was to feel Meera’s legs part and spread beneath him. The satisfying pinch they made pressing on his sides. How lips and tongue, mouth and chin found Meera’s secret sweet spot awash with wet. Undeniable proof, real evidence.

_Fuck off!_

Inwardly Bran ordered that part of him, the part which seemed married to the idea of self-sabotage, to sod off.

His eyes did another circuit of the party.

Meera was gracious enough to notice he was suddenly floundering and move him past it. She joked lightly, “I’ll make sure that we get everyone here next time.” And Bran nodded, grateful, almost lightheaded.

He continued to nod intently at his packet of crisps. Meera did her best not to grin too hard. The humor welling behind her eyes was not unkind, though still teasing of course.

“You know, it’s not _so_ bad to get to know people you don’t know. We don’t bite. Us from the Neck.”

Bran wrinkled his nose, disbelieving.

“Well, not all of us bite,” she conceded. “Only the best of us do.”

“That’s great.” Bran wiggled his foot out from under where she’d pinned him. “Alright, maybe I’ll mingle. By the way, are your grandparents here? ‘Cause if I can’t spend the rest of the afternoon getting a cross-examination from them, then why have I even come?”

“It’s not that bad,” Meera insisted, voice full of laughter.

When Meera laughed, her face lit up. Both charmed and charming.

Should he allowed himself, he could have forgotten the rest of the party right there. For at a smile indulgent as the one she’d given him just now, Bran could easily occupy ten minutes to sit down and unpack everything he liked about it.

He could have forgotten about them, the others. Could have, but did not. The surrounding noise of party goers filtered back into his ears.

He straightened up. However the more he tried to correct course, the more Meera enjoyed steering them back astray, it would seem.

She wasn’t touching him anymore at least. Although it were as if she’d found a way to make even that worse. He felt the space between them prickling at his nerves. Maybe she was leaned in too close.

“To be honest Bran, I wouldn’t let my nan within three hundred yards of you. She’s far too much a flirt. A right ol’ tart. I don’t need the competition.”

Bran was fairly confident there was absolutely nothing he could say to that. So he went with, “Okay…” And when he realized all they were doing was smiling at each other, he returned his attention to the sad little packet of crisps.

Her eyes must have followed his. Meera reached as though to take a crisp but her hand waited, hovering for his permission. Bran gestured the bag onward and so she helped herself, popping a crisp into her mouth and mumbling a crunchy thanks.

“So what about you?” Bran asked after clearing his throat. She gave him her ear while discretely licking at salty fingers on her lips. “It’s your holiday, isn’t it? Having a good Hunter’s Moon?”

“Mm, having a right good time. It’s a banger, this one.”

“Hunted many a dumplings?”

Stealing another crisp, she said haughtily, “It’s been a fair few years since I was too old for the hunt, Bran.”

“But I suppose you were the best?”

Meera mostly ignored that, instead looking Bran up and down. “I moved on to finer game.”

“Come on, Meera.”

“Come on what?” Meera made a face. “That could be better phrased, I’ll grant you.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?”

“You know what you’re doing.”

“I’m doing _what_?” she insisted chuckling. “I’m not doing anything.”

“So that’s why you came over here, then?” Bran continued, undeterred. “To nettle me?”

Meera paused, something sweet and far off about the sad smile that crossed her face. “I’m not nettling,” she said. “I wanted to talk to you. I haven’t seen you since your sister’s party.”

The calm in her voice could almost sound to some condescending though it wasn’t; it was too soft.

‘I know,’ Bran thought. What he said was, “Yeah.” _I haven_ _’t seen you either. I wanted to._

 _How_ _’s it been for you? I’ve been wondering…Just wondering, all the time._

Bran gave a sudden start when two screaming children ran past them.

Catching his flash of confused panic, Meera swallowed her grin, aiming it towards the ground as ways of to be polite. Her eyes dwelled on Bran’s forgotten beer by their feet. She snatched it up, drinking and surveying the surrounding goings-on of the party.

From the corner of his eye, Bran watched her as she finished the little that was left of his beer.

It was strange to catch the brown of Meera’s eyes in the afternoon sun. They glowed. Beaming when struck by sunlight, shining like some earthy amber gem.

“You know, Bran,” Meera began after another sip. “You don’t have to follow Jojen around the whole time.”

“I’m not.” He wasn’t. “There’s just…” Bran shrugged, not finding anything else to do when he peered about the grounds. “I’m not big into the chore of keeping up small talk with people you are only going to know for thirty minutes anyways.”

“Howww sociable.”

He looked at her, chiding. And Meera looked at him, rejecting said chiding.

“Anyways, I wasn’t saying you have to do the whole ‘Hi, what’s your name?’ kinda thing.”

“What were you saying then?”

“I was saying if you’re bored, there’s other stuff to do.”

“Like what?”

Reclining against the tree, Meera stared up at him pointedly.

 _Stop that._ “…Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“You can’t mean…”

“Oh, can’t I?”

“Cut it out. You’re not—”

“Oh, _aren_ _’t_ I?”

Meera snickered. Even Bran, vexed as he was, gave in to just a small laugh, getting to see Meera completely enjoying her own humor.

She glanced about them from side to side. “It’s not a bad idea though. This party is going to drag on for ages. Yes, more for me than for you, but still very long for you. You know, your parents are going to want to be one of the last who leave.”

“…So?? However long the party may last does not change the fact that it’s a _party_ —one that is familial and—”

“That didn’t seem to stop you last time.”

“—and…Well, yes, but—”

“What’s good for the gander is good for the goose.” Meera nudged him now with the butt of the beer bottle. The cool, wet glass upset the nerves of his skin, over-warm. “And I might be thinking the goose wants her lay.”

“I…” How did they get there? “I feel like you’re throwing nursery rhymes at me. Nursery rhymes that are potentially raunchy.”

“Well?” she asked grinning. “What do you say?”

“What do I say to what?”

“Wanna come upstairs with me?”

 _What??_ “What?”

“What?”

“What are you talking about?” Bran grumbled in utter frustration, trying to keep his voice low while he checked no one was standing too near them.

“What’s with all the innocence?” Meera asked sounding nonplussed. “I’m fairly sure you’ve been in my room before, Bran. Some memories stick out more than others.”

“Yeah but not while your family was here.”

“Ohhh. Was that the time it was my room but someone else’s family?”

Bran’s shoulders slumped forward which only made Meera cackle again.

“Is this what gets you off?” he muttered in a defeated sort of way. “Torturing me?”

Meera crossed her arms, tucking the bottle below them. “I thought you knew what gets me off.”

Those words in her voice by themselves would have made Bran go hot. But hearing them while she stared him down, stared him down for true…

His heart and lungs failed their next beat. Then they spluttered back into motion with a minor cough.

Bran spun his head from side to side, craning his neck, wanting to assure himself no children were nearby. Nor anybody else, for that matter.

“What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing yet.”

“ _Meera_.” She raised her eyebrows at him, demure and coy all at once. “Meera, come on…that’s not funny.”

“Maybe I’m not joking.”

“…I’m fairly sure you are.”

Her eyes narrowed as she breathed in, quite like she was losing her patience. “I’m fairly certain I’m not.”

His throat felt hot. It was already too hot in the afternoon sun. Bran glanced irritably to the side again and dropped his voice to a notch below a whisper, barely discern able. “What was all that about keeping on the low? Not wanting other people to come poking their nose round?”

Meera’s voice dropped down just as low to meet his, almost to a hiss. “I’m not saying you mount me here on the hill.” He twisted to the side again and Meera swung her hand out to wrench him back. “Could you look more conspicuous??” she said, this time in a hiss for true.

“I’m not the one who’s conspicuous, you’re the one—”

“I’m not waving a flag of ‘hey-I-wanna-shag’ for everyone to see, Bran.”

“Where even—”

“My room, you lunk.”

“What, what—” Bran spluttered. Finally getting the words out, he asked quietly and quickly, “What was all that about not wanting to mess things up or invite other people in on what goes on—”

“Who is inviting anyone else into my bedroom? I’m talking about _you_ and _me_ disappearing for thirty minutes.”

They stared at one another, each waiting pointedly for the other to see the light.

“Meera—”

Bran gave a small yell when he felt a tug on the back of his trousers.

He spun round to find a little boy with eyes gone wide. The boy had tried to ask, “Excuse me, mister?” loud enough to be heard but had been taken quite unawares by the tall stranger’s rough reaction.

Behind Bran’s shoulder, Meera covered her face with a hand groaning low in frustration.

“Um—uh—what?” Bran asked rather breathlessly.

But Meera cut ahead of him to crouch down to the boy’s height. “What is it, Tobby?”

 

Meera saw to helping her cousin’s son retrieve a dumpling hidden too far off the ground, tucked into a tree knot.

Bran used the time to catch his breath. Gain his bearings.

Turning, he caught it as Jojen distinctly looked away. Standing quite a ways down the hill, guiding the littlest of the kids to where they might find a dumpling if they hadn’t found one by now.

Bran swallowed.

And she had returned.

Scratching lightly at her chin, Meera mumbled, “How is it that I am so attracted to you?” in a tone aiming at disbelief.

 _I don_ _’t know_.

She frowned, and sighed. “And you were right by the way. I was just teasing you. Sorry.”

That gave Bran pause.

She continued, “Not a good joke. Well you know, it _is_. But not one of my better ones.”

If there were anything that would make Bran think Meera _had_ meant it, it would be her saying that she hadn’t.

“Meera…” he tried tentatively. “Were you serious just now?”

“No.” When Bran looked unconvinced, Meera blinked and glanced away, turning to tuck back one of the curly locks that framed her face. “I mean…if you were up for it—but—it’s not—Really, I was just…”

She was actually being sincere? Hadn’t Meera thought his apartment a fifteen minute cab ride away from a party had been too obvious? Now, she talking a room a one minute walk away from a party? Not even—a room technically within the party bounds. _Here_? Of all places?

“Meera, obviously it’s not like I don’t want to,” Bran said. “But I mean… _anytime_ would be better than now. Even if I—even if I had to do something like sneak back here or—Or maybe you could sneak to my place? Do you want to come to my place tonight?” The possibility dawned in his mind suddenly. Him and Meera—cuddled together, wearing PJs, perhaps watching some funny video online while they snuggled, winding down after a good long night of fucking.

“I _can_ _’t_.”

“Why not?” Bran blurted out hopefully. The idea seemed amazing to him now. But Meera only furrowed her brow.

“It’s the night of the hunter’s moon; I’m with my family tonight. We have to watch the moon.”

“…You actually _watch_ the moon?”

Meera’s hand flew up from behind her back to give Bran a clout behind the ear.

“Just for when it’s highest in the sky—”

“ _Ow_.”

“Not the whole night, you idiot.”

“Me, idiot? I’m not the one watching the moon.”

She fidgeted, repositioning her feet, saying, “But you had the truth of it. It was stupid.” Meera shook her head, hair flopping in the movement.

She made to leave so Bran’s hand flashed out to grab an arm. “Wait.” _Don_ _’t go._

With his hold on her, nearly pinning her arm to her chest, they—Bran and Meera—had gotten closer. The space between them, thinner. They stood almost face aligned with face.

He wanted to pull her closer. His fingers only loosened, so slow they almost caressed her.

Meera made a sigh behind lips pressed tight together. “Really, I better get back to socializing. Otherwise my mum will get more on my case. And she’s already on my case.”

“No, forget what I said. Who listens to _me_??”

She smiled at him.

He wanted to put his hands on her shoulders. “I just spout off worries. It’s not even real, they’re just a habit; Meera, I—”

Above all the separate murmurs of all the separate of conversations happening in the Reeds’ backyards, a woman’s voice called out, “ _Meer-ra?_ ”

Meera’s eyes darted past him, back towards the house, to where her mother stood with one foot out the back doors. “Oh, fuck.” She muttered in an undertone, “I gotta go,” her arm sliding beneath his outstretched hand.

 

It was probably for the best.

Maybe they would have decided to go. And Meera’s mum would have found and summoned her all the same. Maybe Bran wouldn’t even know, if they’d moved separately. And he would be left alone in her room, quite hot and bothered, waiting.

‘ _Yeah, well_ ,’ Bran thought bitterly, ‘ _it_ _’s not like much’s improved now anyways.’_

Thankfully no one would be able to notice with his jeans but just as the thought of being with Meera again, blooming unexpectedly, had him stiffened half-hard already inside his trousers.

He kicked at the dirt below his feet. He’d just had to say something, had to make a fuss…

 _Nice one, Bran_.

 

 

“Over there. Over there.”

“Where, Morya?”

“Right here. Can’t you see it? You can’t see from up there.”

“You’re right.”

Jojen crouched down with his bare feet flat on the grassy undergrowth. His cousin Morya, a girl of four or five with the same dirty blond hair, was pointing at the space below a clump of bushes. Jojen squinted and found the rice dumpling he’d placed there a couple of hours ago.

He reached through the branches and pulled it out, exclaiming in a loud voice, “You found it!”

After his ‘catch-up’ with Meera, Bran hadn’t felt like making forced small talk with the Crannog cousins. Which meant he stuck around whatever it was Jojen was doing. Feigning nonchalance, Bran had moseyed over to where the guests and children were more clustered. He watched Jojen conducting the children’s festivities again, helping out when Jojen pointed at him to help out. That meant playing with the younger children, but he was mostly successful in avoiding actually doing too much of that as he was in a less than stellar mood. Though Morya was sweet enough.

Jojen didn’t appear to be overflowing with enthusiasm at having Bran’s unproductive presence back. But luckily his dark mood lifted, though only after it was Jojen spontaneously nailed Bran in the back of his head with a misshapen dumpling as Bran was turned away, opening a soda bottle for one of the little girls, coincidentally sending the girls diving for cover screaming and giggling.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Jojen quipped innocently while Bran ran a hand through his hair, dislodging sticky rice. “It’s a _hunt_. What’s a hunt without a bit of sport?”

Very conveniently in Bran’s opinion, Jojen hastily found it very important to the children’s safety that everyone avoid the onset of a full-on rice-ball fight. But he had stopped frowning at least so Bran decided to let it go, however disgruntled.

And it served to free Bran up nicely from feeling obligated to continue pretending to be of use. He laid out on one of the flatter stretches of grass, reclining back on his arms, his eyes closed as he let the sunshine wash over him. Little Morya must have thought he had the right idea, for she came to join him.

Bran had long past given up trying to keep his feet or trousers clean. Whatever earth that had been damp enough to cling him clung to him and a mild sheen of sweat caught here and there on his back and arms. It was a nice day to be sure, most likely to be one of last truly warm days in the southern autumn, and Bran liked how the air was warm without the oppressive heat of summer. He did not miss the misery of true summer sweat either.

Most of the other kids stopped searching after scarfing down two or three of the dumplings they found, occasionally one crying out in disgust if they happened to do so without detecting theirs was a trick one. Little Morya hadn’t eaten any however, only intent on hunting down the most.

“How many dumplings have you found?” Bran asked of her.

“Almost all of them.”

“All of them?” And when she nodded, he praised, “That is a lot,” which seemed to please her.

“I haven’t found any bog fairies though.”

“Bog fairies?” Bran peeked one eye open, squinting at her through the sunshine. “What are bog fairies?”

The little girl stared at Bran as if he’d started speaking in Valyrian. Next she hollered out for Jojen. “ _Jojennn_.”

Jojen jumped down from a nearby tree having just retrieved what was left of a dumpling. One of his young cousins had found it and another had promptly stolen it and sent it hurtling away high into the air, out of spite in some argument between the two.

“What?” he hollered back as he handed the remains to the teary boy beside him, still refusing to be consoled.

“Why doesn’t Bran know about bog fairies?” Morya asked.

“I don’t know.” Jojen smacked his hands free of tree bark as he walked over to them. Bran noted he was panting and slightly out of breath. “Why don’t you know about bog fairies, Bran?”

Bog fairies must have been a folk legend of the Neck, akin to snarks or to grumpkins. Not being from the Neck, Bran had never gone searching for bog fairies. He did though, as a child, go exploring with his siblings, clinging onto Sansa’s hand for protection, scouring the woods behind their house high and low, searching for a sign of the children of the forest.

Bran switched his squinting eye from one to the other, now trained on Jojen. “Meera wouldn’t be happy to know you’ve been climbing up and leaping off trees.”

“I am not Meera’s keeper,” Jojen told him, not for the first time. “And _Meera_ is not _my_ keeper.”

Bran decided not to argue, for what seemed the seventeenth time that day. But Jojen being Jojen, he picked up on Bran’s unconvinced-ness anyways. He sat down on Morya’s other side looking miffed, muttering something under his breath. Whatever he was saying was going more unsaid than said but Bran thought he heard an ‘exactly’ and ‘my ass’ in there somewhere.

Between them Morya was humming to herself. She snuck in a secretive glance at Bran before stretching over to whisper something into Jojen’s ear, shielding the exchange with her hand. Jojen bent to listen. And listeing, he fixed Bran with a look which suggested he might have just bitten into one of the trick dumplings.

Jojen said in a whisper made plainly audible, “Handsome? Morya, are your eyes working okay? Do you need to go to the doctor?”

Little Morya shook her head and put her hand up again, continuing to whisper. Bran watched them patiently, squinting in the direct line of sunlight as Jojen continued to make a face.

“Are you sure?” he whispered loudly. “Are you sure Bran doesn’t have a horse face?”

“Nope,” she declared quite confidently, forgetting to whisper.

“Morya,” Bran asked and the girl shot her attention over to him. “Do you think your cousin has a frog face?”

“No,” she repeated just as confident. “Jojen’s handsome too. He’s not like Addison.”

“Yeah!” Jojen agreed, jumping at the chance to mock his cousin Addison, who was only older than Jojen by a year though he liked to act as though it were ten. “Addison’s not like us. _Fu-_ uuahhh—mmn.”

Bran sat up and said dryly, “Nice save.”

Jojen gave Bran a sarcastic smile. Next, seemingly deciding Morya had grown too quiet, he sprang forward without warning to grab her about the stomach with fingers tickling.

With all the determination of a panicked squirrel Morya squirmed free and ran off, shrieking. And Jojen tore after her, leaving Bran smiling to himself in the sun.

The smile disappeared when he peered down at his trouser pocket, which had started buzzing.

> **13:14; Meera**
> 
> You look like you’re having fun

Bran swiveled from side to side. All he found were distinctly _non_ -Meera guests.

> **13:15; Meera**
> 
> Not a very good hunter tho
> 
> Can’t find nothing

To one side of the Reed’s grounds, Jojen was still chasing a squealing Morya, mostly letting her outstrip him, sometimes being outstripped for real as she went weaving in and out the clusters of chatting adults. A group of teenagers stood around a tub of drinks to the other side, drinking sodas and conversing self-consciously.

Bran craned his neck inspecting the far corners or obscured patches in his view but the only brown curls he found belonged to men and women who were still not Meera.

> **13:15; Bran**
> 
> What are you doing? Stop being weird.
> 
> **13:16; Meera**
> 
> Those who can’t hunt soon become the prey

He rose to stand.

Bran stared about the yard with a growing wild determination. That was, until he noticed a few of the teens close by watching him out of the corner of their eye. _Pff. Teenagers._

> **13:16; Meera**
> 
> Hehehhe
> 
> Adorable
> 
> Like a pup who can’t catch a laser beam

Reading that, he almost growled.

> **13:17; Meera**
> 
> Up, dummy

So Bran’s eyes roamed up. Combing over the second floor of the house, he finally found Meera standing behind one of the closed windows.

She waved. And, from where Bran still stood down below, his eyes narrowed.

 _Is that her room? Her room is there?_   Bran supposed he’d only been in her room once or twice…somehow he’d been too distracted to enjoy the view.

> **13:18; Bran**
> 
> I will remind you I am a guest.
> 
> **13:18; Meera**
> 
> Yeah right
> 
> You’re no guest

Jojen made little roars, sending Morya into great hysterics, making her run faster both terrified and giggling.

> **13:19; Bran**
> 
> You slipped away then?
> 
> **13:19; Meera**
> 
> No I’m downstairs still making the rounds
> 
> Of course I slipped away what do you think?
> 
> Are you coming up or not?

‘Didn’t you promise your father you’d heed discretion not just a few weeks ago?’ a voice inside Bran’s head posited sounding oddly like Sansa, or perhaps Talisa.

_Shut up, you._

‘Great,’ Bran thought. ‘Argue with yourself like a crazy person. Solid decision making.’ What would Robb do? What would Summer do?

He didn’t need to think about what his father would do—that point was moot. His father never did anything. Anything he wasn’t obligated to do for that matter. ‘Constant vigilance, constant discretion.’ That was just another way to say sit still and be brooding.

Bran chewed the inside of his lip.

‘It is not without reason we teach you discretion. There are some things that are private,’ his father had told him.

His father had also told him the only time a man could be brave was when he was afraid. And right now he felt afraid. But more—excited. His heart was drumming faster as though revving up on a runway. He musn’t get too excited, lest his heart burst inside his chest and spoil the fun before any fun was even had.

He glanced up once more. Meera was watching him, her head propped up by her arms resting on the windowsill. She yawned pointedly.

_I must be brave, like Robb._

That wasn’t exactly Talisa’s advice when she had spoke with him. When she and Bran had had their small but soft heart-to-heart.

_But I am not Talisa. Robb, Summer, Theon, everyone—sod them. What would I do?_

> **13:21; Bran**
> 
> Do you want me to?
> 
> **13:21; Meera**
> 
> Oh my fucking god
> 
> Okay here

Meera made a signal, beckoning him to keep his eyes on her. Bran resisted the urge to check on Jojen again. He tried at least to appear as though he were not speaking intimately with someone half a hundred feet away, making the small effort to appear instead as though he’d simply decided to stare up at the sky for a few minutes at a weird angle.

She checked the grounds from side to side. Then Meera was bending at the waist, mostly disappearing from view. She was fidgeting or shuffling, or doing something rather around her feet. When she straightened back up, she tossed her head back clearing from her face the curls that had fallen forward.

Bran had just about had enough. Staring this long—he was convinced that in a couple of seconds his father, the feared and admired Eddard Stark, would emerge from the shadows of the house glowering.

He’d have to go inside and explain it all to Meera, through texts to be sure—he couldn’t go upstairs. He couldn’t make up his mind but wherever his mind was at now, he was almost somewhat sure that was the right one. The right decision.

She smiled at him. And something about the gleam in the way her eyes shined made him remain where he was. Grinning, pleased with herself, Meera waved at him again. Only this time something came up with her hand, and Bran saw. There, clutched between two bunched fingers, was a pair of tacky white and purple shorts.

 


	19. House Reed Party (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talisa – 28. Robb, Jon – 27. Theon – 26. Meera – 25. Sansa – 24. Arya – 23. Jojen, Bran – 22. Rickon – 18.  
> Mood: Fenne Lily – What's Good

** THE DAY OF THE HARVEST MOON **

** House Reed **

He ran his fingers through his hair.

_Here goes._

He took the first step down. The rest of the stairs followed easier. People were moving about the living room, about the house—everywhere. Everywhere he looked, there were people. _And they are moving just like me, so no more fretting. Enough now._ Bran was returning from the bathroom upstairs just like any other person. That was the truth, so far as anyone else had to know.

Perched above the bottom stair he scanned the Reed’s living room, but alas a bit too fast and barely saw anything.

He supposed he ought to find Jojen. Better yet, he should go and float near bouts the food and then find Jojen. Maybe he’d bring them both beers or a packet of crisps.

But that happy plan was not meant to be. In their survey of the room, Bran’s eyes passed right over to the far corner. There the Reeds had shoved the sofa and crammed in front of it the television set as well. Sat there with his arms crossed, surrounded by a hoard of children, was Jojen.

Jojen, with his irritating knack for noticing everything, he had already found Bran.

Up along the stairs, Bran faltered. The two boys stared at one another—Jojen, surrounded by the hoard of kids, all their round young faces rapt to the glow from the television. His jaw grew unnaturally tight but elsewise Jojen made no move other than to return to watching whatever it was all his cousins were watching, little Morya among them.

Head down, Bran shuffled over to them. He had to weave his way through children sprawled out before the sofa, and then to wedge himself in between the armrest and Jojen, who in tight-lipped stubbornness was proving difficult to budge.

Budge he did, eventually, enough so that Bran managed to embed himself in what little space was left. Were he truly lucky, Bran would be able to sink right into the sofa cushions and disappear. Whatever interest he’d had in attending the party had melted away entirely, and that had been little enough.

Neither Jojen nor Bran spoke.  It took Bran a good few minutes to even realize what it was he was watching. They’d turned on a film. Apparently one featuring lots of loud bangs and jarring bursts of soundtrack. A mindless movie but one that the children liked. It made them break out into giggles and ask questions among themselves, such like ‘what made Pig Boy scream like that?’

Bran cleared his throat and crossed his arms, much like Jojen. To break the ice he grumbled a cursory, “Alright?”

Jojen, eyes still fixed on the TV and jaw working silently, did not deign to make a reply. Not until he reeled his arm in one abrupt motion to send it punching down at Bran’s shoulder.

Bran yelped. Cramped together as they were, it had not been a real punch, not truly. Jojen didn’t have the space. But still, he had done what he could.

The spot where Jojen had punched him smarting considerably, Bran snapped, “What’s your problem?”

Morya, who had turned her head to stare curiously at the boys, snapped away again as the TV recalled the kids’ attention with another loud bang. Deafening zaniness ensued.

“You’re my problem,” Jojen growled back, a low murmur.              

Bran rubbed at his shoulder, frowning.

_I’ll let him have that one, but just the one. He takes another swing and I will hit him back. I will. Neither he nor Meera can blame on me for that._

Bran was not so certain about that last part though. Meera, he’d found, could put blame wherever it was needed when it came to protecting Jojen.

Not that Bran thought that was exactly fair. But even so, he knew he was already unduly pushing his luck. So he stayed silent. And in his silence Bran sent a prayer to the gods, both the old and the new, that the party’s end come quickly.

 

Unfortunately for him, the house party insisted on petering out over the entirety of the afternoon. Eventually even cartoons lost the children’s interest. They became fussy, and Bran with them, though he kept that to himself.

But unlike Bran, the Crannog children were not one of the Reeds’ closest friends and they were not expected to remain the whole duration. By 3:00pm, they’d started to dwindle. Not Bran.

His own parents would not leave until near the very end. He watched them from the sofa, sulking, his arms folded bound tight around his chest. Eddard and Catyln stood chatting with the Reeds and other Northern or friendly families. Sipping and chuckling over the trivial jibber jabber of adults. Acquisitions or renovations. The riveting antics of some nutty VP of some former partner. What a shame it was, so-and-so’s husband’s mother’s illness. It was endless.

****

The sun hung low in the sky by the time Ned and Catelyn seemed finally willing to depart. Bran waited for them, hanging back on the gravel driveway before the Reed’s house. Cars littered the grounds, parked on driveway or grass, or spilling out to the adjoining street. The four adults were wrapping up their goodbyes before his parents’ SUV. Chatting, for a change.

_Bloody endless._

Bran stared about listlessly at the surrounding trees. He took to rubbing his arms though the evening was pleasant. He couldn’t make sense of the day. The two parts had been so different. A hundred things he’d meant to say. Between the private space in Meera’s bedroom and the public space of Meera’s living the room, the enormity of difference was such that they might as well have been separated by train than by a flight of stairs.

It felt wrong. Leaving the party, without saying goodbye to Meera. Yes, they had agreed not to seek each other out for the rest of the party. But he hadn’t even _seen_ her.

Not that he had been specifically on the lookout. He had, but that was not the point. For the party’s remainder Bran had not much left the sanctuary of the living room’s far corner, apart from one excruciating moment when called upon to speak with the parents, all four of them. And that had been uncomfortable enough.

He listened to the chorus of crickets and the familiar prattle of his and Meera’s parents’ voices. Bran revolved on a foot, slow, and chanced to glance back at the house.

His eyes fell on her. There must have been a dozen people in view, people outside the house or those visible through the windows, yet his eyes found hers as though Meera stood in an empty room. It was her curls; he’d know them anywhere.

She’d been contemplating him from behind the bay window, leaned up on its frame as remaining partygoers milled about behind her. The directness of his stare had almost startled her. Her mouth parted in a muted expression of soft surprise.

Bran’s face lit up. A flash of relief washed over him as pure reflex. He’d found her; they could say their goodbyes.

The relief though, which had swelled so unexpectedly, began to wane. They were still in public after all, not to mention in view of both sets of parents. Spotting her one last time probably changed nothing.

But he was glad to see her one last time, even if it was only at a distance. Meera would see him leave. She wouldn’t be left to come to conclusion on her own an hour or so later.

Back inside the house, Meera lifted a small hand from where her arms were crossed across her chest. She gave him a subdued wave with her fingers. ‘Bye.’

Bran did not wave back; he couldn’t. The smile he gave her in its stead was a complicated one.

Upstairs in her room, when she’d been on him and she was all he could feel or see, he’d been happy. Happy to stare up at brown eyes and see their every detail like melted chocolate, all the microscopic canons and valleys. But out here the sun was disappearing behind the trees. He could not even tell that her eyes were brown. He could only tell where her eyes were looking. And maybe…something of the expression behind them.

He heard his mother’s voice. “ _Bran_.”

Barely turning his head, Bran had not looked away from her yet. Somewhere over his shoulder their parents were wrapping up farewells and well-wishing. This was it.

He gave her one last small smile. One which Meera returned, small as well.

And then he turned, and joined his parents.

** Meera’s room, again **

A hundred things he’d meant to say. ‘Are you having a laugh?’ ‘No, let’s not.’ ‘You’re having a laugh—you are; stop it.’

Practiced words resurfaced once or twice, and were promptly tossed aside. Trifling words.

It could have been song seven-hundred-and-thirty in the never ending playlist of Bran’s favorite daydreams. And his head was so full of her, it was almost hard to be sure. Meera’s noises were soft but coming fast. Her hands were more than familiar with him, wonderfully. They ran over his arms and up his back with a determined certainty. A dream it might have been, if not for the strain in her touch, the anxiousness that bordered on brusque.

This was better. Even if they were dizzy from going too fast, even if every sweet noise of relief required mental reprimand, this was better. Far and forever and impossibly better.

He was touching her. Hands dragging up her sides. Letting her mouth explore him again, lay claim to him again.

There was that distant buzzing of course. A grating, distant buzz for concerns and logical thinking, present mostly in form of the general backdrop—a jumble of voices and the dozens and dozens of feet downstairs. Laughs and cheers from somewhere not here. Outside perhaps. Though none so loud to quell the need that was spreading now, now that it had quickened. It coursed through the both of them, from one into the other. Coursing through veins and through breath, they felt it lurch and sway as they got lost, caught in a feedback loop.

Meera pulled back. They broke apart and heard the rasp of their heavy breathing.

Blinking, he stared down at her. Meera’s lips were swollen. Messy. She looked good like that. He blinked and then he smiled, content to contemplate Meera and her daring while she licked her lips and caught her breath below. Her arms crushed in the space between them, fingers bracing to his arm.

Meera and her brown eyes, aglow with play and perhaps a little curiosity. More than aglow—brown eyes blazing. Her legs jut up from the flat of the mattress to pinch in about his sides, securing him at the hips. Bran liked the feel of them, the squeeze.

Even positioned as they were, she managed to snake a hand round his ear. Fingers playing and tugging him towards her.

If he kissed her for longer, her lips would become more swollen and her mouth more messy.

So he leaned down and brushed his lips to hers. Meera closed her eyes, and opened to him.

Her thighs stretched until Bran fit between them as if she meant for him to fuck her then, now, driving him mad. As if there remained no pants, no heavy jeans between them.

They went faster. The way Bran was lying on top of her, Meera had only to lift her hips, which she did, Bran rutting. It was all too much. The indifference on denim was not enough to block it out. Bran could sense, as could the aching in his cock, the soft impression of skin. Of Meera plush and ready for him, masked in nothing more than a black pair of knickers beautifully plain. The air in his lungs was driven out in a carnal grunt he failed to stifle.

That was when it happened. A floorboard creaked outside the room.

‘Nope,’ was all he thought. Meera’s head whipped down to gape at the door. Elsewise they froze. Not moving. Meera wasn’t even breathing. Surely…this was a jape.

Bran closed his eyes, dwelling internally (and self-indulgently) that his life was not much more than one big jape. A joke made by gods of cruel humors.

 

In truth, the moment he’d first made it to the room had been a tad glorious. That moment when he’d dashed inside and locked the door, spun round.

Each passing year of this trial-run go at a life of his brought with it the possibility of moments. Moments that could or should be. Moments of play, of fun and fancy or of hijinks and adventures. Anecdotes greatly needed to build a repertoire, lest Bran be asked to relay a story from his life only to be forced to the reveal that he had never lived one. Each year brought the potential, and each year took with it another couple hundred moments unplayed in its passing. A repertoire of next-times and next-years. Well, this would not be one of them.

Bran’s hand had still been gripped tight around the doorknob while he drank in the sight before him. Across the room, bold as you please, Meera had stood with nothing but her t-shirt and a pair of black knickers. And the wink she could not help but to toss him.

They stood there for quite some time, delighting in their own cleverness. He considered the prospect they made. Meera, proud of herself in her knickers, and him with his cock embarrassingly hard and heavy inside his trousers.

Bran was glad to be young. Glad, grateful, that he was young and that so was she, and that they had this chance to be young together. You couldn’t be young and stupid forever.

 

Atop her bed, Bran and Meera waited. Unmoving.

Up until now, the party going on downstairs had been only a general blanket of noise, much to their convenience. But now. Now they could hear its layers. There were shallows here on the upper floor. Little pockets of silence. Pockets of silence in which Bran and Meera heard someone walk across a floorboard outside her room. If they could hear them, whoever was outside…

Meera’s head snapped to the left, listening as they heard a far off door shut in that direction. She whispered, “That’s the bathroom.”

A beat passed, then another.

He swallowed. He felt waves of dizziness trying to get at him, and his throat was dry. His insides though were sinking like lead.

“Bran?”

Head drooping, he let himself concentrate on a spot above Meera’s shoulders. Above the way her shoulders curved, cradled as they were by Bran’s hand behind them. It had to be asked, so he forced himself of it. “What are we doing?”

“We’re doing…what we’ve always been doing,” Meera said, still whispers. She whipped up a smile chock-full of confidence that was out of place.

Bran stifled the almost-laugh it brought out in him.

“No, I mean it. What are we doing?”

“They didn’t hear.”

He’d begun to sigh but she grabbed him suddenly, a hand to either ear. Pulled him down near to where his lips brushed hers—brow to brow, nose to nose. Bran wouldn’t meet her gaze, deliberating blinking. His eyes stung as though they suddenly thought the room too hot. Though that might have been because of how he was perched above her now, awkward—his elbows jutting into the mattress. It hurt.

With his head in her hands, Meera gave him a little shake. And this time he did laugh, despite himself. “They didn’t hear,” she said again.

A pause while they heard the distant flush of a toilet. Next the plumbing within the walls began to hum.

Continuing in whispers, Meera’s words tumbled over one another in her haste. “Bran, you’re here. And that person doesn’t know what they heard. There’s more noises out there than in here. And whoever they are, unless they’re Jojen, hasn’t the faintest idea you could be in here.”

 _Gods, I hope it isn’t Jojen._ Jojen hated the idea already enough. He didn’t need to hear Bran grunt.

She closed her eyes to give the smallest hint of shaking her head. “It’s not Jojen. He wouldn’t go through the pretense of using the loo as an excuse, would he?”

It was not only Jojen who could know. Not that Meera was aware, but Eddard Stark also knew. But the thought didn’t trouble Bran. His father was not much for pretense either.

They heard vague creaking again of floorboards. The person was heading back downstairs.

Meera—she looked so good in the afternoon sun—her eyes were bright, searching him earnestly. She brushed back his hair from his face. No one ever touched him as tenderly as Meera did.

“And I’m not just saying all that just ‘cause I want to shag you either. Obviously I _do_ —I do want that—but that’s not the point.”

All he’d thought of for the last month…

“Emo Boy, hurry up,” she said smiling and complaining. “Just let me know what you want to do. If it’s not right now, I’ll pitch myself out the window. Nah, I won’t. I’ll wait until tonight and then I’ll pitch myself out the window.”

She pinched his nose, which he tried to resent.

“Hey,” she started hopefully, “maybe it’ll work out so that we can do it sometime in the next coming weeks. Maybe I’ll give you train fare for the way to High Garden.”

“I don’t need you _paying_ me.”

Meera was already looking off into her picture of the future, eyes sparkling. “Think about it. I can set you up in a grand apartment at the top of a high rise. ‘A love nest,’ if you will—”

“—won’t—”

“Well cared for. The finest establishments only for my courtesan. Isn’t that what you wanted to be when you were a kid?”

“A knight,” Bran corrected, frowning. She shrugged. He felt her chest bump against him when she did.

“Same difference, swearing your lance to some smarmy highborn.”

It was hard to sulk with Meera. She was always cheeky. “Knights don’t swear their lance to crazy Crannog women.” He dropped his voice, then his face. Lips pressed onto the hollow of her neck.

“That’s highborn crazy Crannog woman to you,” Meera said, stubborn, squirming a little.

Bran kissed and sucked at the salt of her sweat from the sun. _You literally taste like sunshine,_ he thought licking at her, tasting, feeling drunk on her scent. Breathing against her neck between kisses he murmured, “Were I a knight, would you give me your favor to tie about my lance?”

“I dunno.” She tried to fight an embarrassed smirk as he shifted over her. “I’d have to see you tilt.” Bran tilted her head back, pushing his body down, covering, draping hers as with lips and tongue he opened her to him.

Meera’s hips lifted again to meet him. He’d had his fill of friction.

All business, he swerved off her. Hooked two fingers round the waistband of her pants to slide them down. She helped, her unevenly tanned legs extending and retreating out the pants before he tossed them away out into the ether.

She slunk closer—visibly smaller, the pink in her cheeks pinker. Meera tucked herself as close to Bran as she could get in an effort to hide her sudden nakedness beneath him.

He had to look; he had to see. Her legs, her thighs. The untouched skin beneath her hips. The little tuft of hair. Chestnut, the same color as his favorite curls.

Her eyes burning; chest rising, falling fast. She was so—she was his—

But before Bran could fall back on top of her, Meera hissed, “Wait.”

She began to twist, managing to rise up onto all fours before climbing to her knees. “Sit here,” she said, leaning to pat a stretch of bed behind her along the wall. Her legs—her _ass._ Smooth curves, plain for view. Her skin would do well with a good kneading.

“What?” Bran asked, forgetting to check Meera’s face.

“Sit **here** _,_ ” she said again and with considerable less patience. Seizing Bran about the collar, Meera dragged him. He fumbled, falling lopsided, only managing to scoot himself backwards per buffeting insistence.

She crowded up to him. Bran glanced down to see what she was doing. Her fingers were clumsy. She was more bullying the flap undone than unzipping. Hands unsteady, mind empty, Bran shrugged her off. He pulled the opening of his jeans wider, hitched up his waist, and dragged the heavy jeans down towards his knees. Movement a little too fast, too dizzy. There was an initial snag, and then his cock sprung free to stand stiff and upright. For her; it was for her.

Only time enough for half a thought, he used it to contemplate the undignified nature of an erection, crude and dumb-looking in the daylight, before he realized Meera was climbing on top of him. She’d dragged his jeans past his knees, beyond that could not be bothered. It gave him a partly bound feel, he tried to jangle his legs looser, but that bumped her ass on his lap, he didn’t need that. He knew what the lads had started calling Roger Ryswell after it became known he’d jizzed on Eddara Tallhart’s knee.

Her legs naked, locking her knees tight to his sides, touching the wall. He could not register what seemed to be happening around him. He looked and saw her thighs and the spry wisp of hair between them. Unveiled and plain and lovely to behold. Mouth open, his hand traced up her waist. He his thumb against her.

Bran choked on his lust. He had forgotten, somehow, how good a woman’s wet could feel. Slicker than water. Slicker than anything had the right to be. Meera swat his hand away and he lifted his head, confused.

She was getting ready. They’d have to go quickly.

The sounds of downstairs’ party had lost its layers. It’d turned back into blasé backdrop. What Bran heard now was Meera’s uneven, shallow breathing. His own blood pounding.

She rushed forward to kiss him, withdrawing much too fast and leaving Bran’s mouth open, dazed. She ducked her face just past his, her breath tickling the skin below his ear. And she sank down.

Meera sank onto him, pushing him up, driving him up as he filled her. Bran bit his lip to keep quiet.

Walls of wet, plush heat, constricting. Further and further down she took him, every inch, until her thighs pushed hard against his lap and he drowned in the richness of the weight.

Maybe it was for the angle they had not yet tried together. Maybe it was because they’d skipped most of foreplay or that Meera was nervous; this time and place being no one’s first choice. But as she sank his cock pushing up, up nearly straight into her, the squeeze of her gorgeous, dearest cunt felt a million times tighter than he could have remembered. A million times for a million nerves.

Then, Meera began to ride him.

Bran screwed his eyes shut, and submitted to the unbearable pleasure of it all.

Covering him with her slightly smaller self, Meera rolled her hips, working him into her, against her walls.

Her arm wrapped around his shoulders for leverage. Experimenting with the angle, feeling changes, working the thick swell of him. Again, and again differently, more painful and more dear. Somehow fuller so that Bran had to quell angry waves of desire to grab her ass, make her ride him faster, and try, try, to make her understand just how truly impossibly gorgeous of a thing she was.

Rogue locks of curly hair swung back and forth onto his face. Not even moving, he was sweating. He put his hands to her waist, to their curve.

Bran clutched at her shoulders, her arms. He swallowed groans, groans that might have given relief to the unremitting pleasure coiling at the pit of his stomach. More, they must have more. Feel it as she took all of him, again and again _._ Let them work together like this for an hour, then return. Would that be too long a time? Why did people have to be so goddamned nosy?

It was fast and rushed. Clothes and skin with soft sweat. Her hands in his hair. Half-whispers mumbled, shared between them. His head rolled back to where it hit the wall. That was uncomfortable. That was good, he could cling to that.

Bran’s lap was getting wet, his skin glossy from a mess of their own making.

Again Bran closed his eyes. He wanted to watch her; he couldn’t. The grip on her hips grew tight.

 “Please don’t stop.” Voice was alarmingly feeble.

She hummed angrily, pace kicking up. She rode him full to gallop; Bran thought he heard the bed making noises.

He buried his face on her chest, to the cotton of shirt.

If they were unbothered and truly alone, he could lift her shirt up off her. She would be bared, as well as spread, across his lap. He’d knead her skin like dough and she would whimper. He could press his lips onto her chest, kissing, and take into his mouth her nipple to suck. For who then could say they had no claim to one another?

Her weight. Her weight landing on him and lifting off again sent pain and pleasure shooting up, balls to brain. He groaned, head falling forward, then backward. He tried to remember whatever it was they had to remember about volume.         

He tried, bit back another groan. He tried, he did, but the way she used her weight on him was maddening.

Meera tutted, her eyes snapping open. “You need to behave and hush up.”

He was trying. Sweat beaded on his brow, along the back of his neck for how hard he was trying. Out of breath, Bran gasped, “I’m sorry,” leaning up close to her. His smile dumb and daft below hers. Her pupils were wide.

She screwed up her face. Then Meera seized hold of Bran by his hair. She anchored herself, and bucked her waist up and up, dragging his length inside her in wild circles. He hissed curses. His hands were slipping—unsure whether to dig at the mattress or grip her small waist to steady him. Lost.

“Fuck.”

“God.” The way her voice was high, sounded like breaking. He wanted to take her voice and live in it. “God, oh god, oh—”

 _I’m going to come_ , Bran realized. _I’m going to come, I’m going to, I can’t stop it_. Panicking, mere seconds at bay, he only thought, _help me._ Someone did.

Meera’s silence broke into a moan, one which grew louder and more real breath by breath in spite of herself. She was moaning and moaning, her eyes shut tight. She sounded so good. It sounded so good, it was impossible not to mimic. He was almost moaning too—a barely contained, low building reflex of call and response. His cock pulsed, jerking inside her, her heat and her moans compounding it all. All at once she convulsed, he felt muscles around him convulse. And Bran exploded.

All his restraint poured out from him in a groan. He gave himself to her shot after shot. Fingers dug like iron into the flesh of her waist as he came noisy. Brilliant Meera pumping them through it.

She wanted to go louder. So did he. They both knew and unknew the rule of being silent; they were trapped.

So Meera caught his open mouth in a kiss, crushing forward onto him. He surged up to meet her. He did generally not prefer coming while distracted by a kiss. But not for this. This was nothing but harmony. It was a perfect moment.

The next moment, less so. As could only be expected.

They came back down to earth, to King’s Landing, to that godsforsaken House Reed party. But it was not so bad. Meera was letting out the remains of her pleasure in laughs. Bran toyed with her hair, the hair dangling in front of him.

They knew that soon they would have to rush. Meera would sneak back to the party busily and Bran would linger here to stagger the reappearances. And then he, too, would trundle off downstairs. But the moment after the next moment. They’d take a second just to savor.

Meera wiped Bran’s cheek for him. Quiet, like she didn’t want her empty room to hear, she bid him promise they would do this again.

He had to soak up the images of the different shades of brown her eyes were in the sunlight. Bran nodded, their faces close together. “I promise.”

****

** Bran’s apartment **

Finally alone in the sanctuary of his apartment, Bran faced the stillness of the flat and sighed a great long sigh.

Wriggling free from his shoes, he kicked them off to the closet to await his return. He tossed keys and wallet aside, wiped his brow, and wondered if he might like a shower. A rinse at least?

The rinse would have to wait. Too drained even to get ready for bed, Bran went for the fridge instead and snatched from it a new bottle of beer. He’d finish the day with a nightcap. He ought to have earned that after all.

Bran rubbed his eyes. The apartment lights were bothering him.

_My head is full of beers. What I need is water._

That, or food. Bran hadn’t thought much of that Crannog food. And he’d seen enough sticky rice to last him a lifetime.

As he passed the bathroom hall, he gave the light switch a clap. White fell away to the greys and blues of an unlit apartment cast in shadows. _That’s better_.

What light remained was better than he’d realized. Not only was the light no longer annoying… _It’s perfect. I could do my taxes by the light of this moon._

It might not have been the Crannog legend’s bounty of fish roe but by the unnaturally bright light of the Harvest Moon, Bran hunted down his sofa, all but collapsing on it.

He had a sip of beer and leaned back to gaze at plastered ceiling. _Hmm._

He mused to himself, shifting upon the cushions.

 _Hmmm_.

Father’s grave advice and a month’s accumulated guilt. All undone in half a heartbeat, and by the world’s ugliest pair of shorts no doubt. But that’s how it was for him, with Meera.

He thought of the month that had passed since that brilliant evening. The nights he forced himself not to think of it, so as to fall asleep unmolested. The nights he could not help but to think of it, to needs be satisfied by his own hand and all the special places of his memory.

The rhythm her hips had beat on his sodden lap had not have the power his strokes did. When he could lay her flat beneath him and fuck her, thrusting deep, glimpsing her shake and squeak. But at the angle he could never have, Meera’d driven him into her. In every right way. Closer than he could have known.

At present though he seemed to be doing alright. Sitting with no reaction—he was starkly calm. Like this sort of thing always happened.

 _Maybe it does. Maybe I’m that kind of guy._ Maybe he’d finally grown into his brothers.

Bran sniffed doubtfully at his beer.

If these things happened, if he were an adult for true, then why did he feel…ill at ease? Bran had distinctly wanted to leave the party; he’d wanted to return home so he could be alone, and relax. It seemed what relaxing really meant was to sit, a knot still lodged in his throat, apparently waiting for the other shoe to drop.

What he couldn’t figure out was why.

He had not liked the goodbye with Meera, that much was true. It had not even been a real goodbye. That’s what he did not like so much about it. It felt weird to come down without her…almost wrong, even though it was what he and Meera had explicitly agreed to.

His brow furrowed. He stared as though glowering at the bottle sweating moisture onto his hand. His thumb continued to push and scrunch the brand label up until no longer recognizable.

Maybe he had simply grown accustomed to failure. Maybe that was it—presuming somewhere he came up short. Sansa said he did that. She was always trying to stamp it out of him.

“I know you’re not naturally so shy,” Sansa would snap, and she’d sometimes brandish a pen threateningly. “I know because I remember. Everyone goes through an insecure phase, Bran, just because you got well stuck in one doesn’t mean you get to live there now.”

Jabbing at his sides. deaf to his protests, she’d say such things when trying to bully him into something social. Practically serving as their mother’s hand.

“You’ll go or you’ll hear about it through to next winter. You’ve already gotten too comfortable being shy. And the only way to get out of being comfortable being shy is to get back into being comfortable _not_ shy.”

The thought of Sansa’s badgerings made Bran smile. He smiled a lot today.

His sister meant well. But she was so focused on undoing any damage his fall had done (whether it be real or projected), she could not always see beyond the trees. He sighed.

What he really needed was to clear his head.

Jojen. His brothers, his sisters. Gods forbid, Theon. If only there was someone he could talk to. And then…

Talisa. He could talk to Talisa.

Now that he thought about it, it seemed obvious. She’d been the only one Bran had confided in last time.

And he’d been grateful. Although their conversation in the Starks’ kitchen had been brief, Bran found he thought about it with almost as much frequency with which he thought about the night that preceded it.

He liked talking to Talisa; talking to her was like talking to a sister. But not one of his sisters. A new one. One who only knew him as a fellow young adult, and had no old memories of doing their best to talk themselves out of trouble to a younger, glowering Catelyn while Bran wailed his head off in the background.

In the wake of his siblings’ excitement, all atwitter at the news of him and Meera, Bran had been grateful he had her to talk to. But his initial desire to talk it all over with someone had by now already faded. Returned to the solitude of his own apartment, he knew that for the time being being alone was better. Maybe he felt a little turned about but that was the initial shock of it, as could be expected. Even after Arya’s birthday, he wasn’t terribly used to good things happening.

Bran thought he knew what Talisa would have to say if she were here, so he could marshal it only as much as it was needed.

And it wasn’t as if she and Robb were bastions of prudency themselves. The way they started up had been more than sketchy, all vaguely knew.

People could have counseled them against it too. But fortunately, other people’s opinions didn’t matter, not when it really came down to it. Whatever good intentions of others, it was Robb and Talisa in the end who knew best Robb and Talisa. And that was the same for him. For them, both him and her. Meera would agree. She did.

That’s why they didn’t want to go around cluing everyone in. People would get the wrong idea; they often did. They were well intentioned, sure, but they didn’t know. They weren’t in it. Only he and Meera knew. And he trusted their judgment.

‘I promise.’ Bran mouthed the words again just to taste them on his lips. He ran his free hand through his hair. Remembering.

Remembering Meera. Remembering Talisa. Them, and what he promised.

He reckoned he’d had enough recuperated energy to shower soon. He’d finish his beer first. It had been a lot packed into one day.

He tried not to. Bran tried to return to the image of the cool, aloof young man. But, finally peeling off the bedraggled bottle logo, he failed again to quench a budding smile again.

 

** THE DAY AFTER ARYA’S BIRTHDAY **

** Stark Manor **

“Bran?”

Bran looked up from the countertop, eyes noticeably red.

“Oh. Hi, Talisa.”

Bran sniffed and straightened up.

“Can’t sleep?”

“Nope.”

She made her way into the kitchen.

Summer trailed in after. He contented himself to graze along Bran’s legs as he passed, Bran reaching down to scratch his ears, before he settled on the floor leaned against the kitchen island. He relaxed his paws’ grip on the tile floor, legs sliding, until he came to be lying down.

Talisa meanwhile clambered up onto the barstool, taking the seat opposite to where Bran stood watching her. The look she gave him was kind and reassuring.

Lightly patting the granite countertop, she added casually, “Essos time. You know how it is.”

“Do you want something to drink? Water, or…” Bran started, trailing off.

“I think I’m feeling ‘or.’”

Bran brushed off his hand with one last small sniff and turned to regard the kitchen’s bar. “We’ve got stouts mostly…There’s also wine, red or Arbor Gold. I think the spirits are upstairs.”

“Can I get a glass of red?”

“Nice.” Bran strode to the back of the kitchen, retrieved a bottle and a glass. “Very Essosian.”

“Valyrian,” she corrected wrinkling her nose. “And won’t you have a glass as well?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t much drink wine.”

“That’s because you’re Northern. And while you’re all very sweet, you’re also uneducated and backwards.” Bran wrinkled his nose back at her. “Have a cup of wine with your brother’s girlfriend. She’s traveled quite a long way just to get here.”

“But you live here anyways.”

“I came to Westeros just for you, Bran. Just for this drink. You can live with that on your conscious? Are you so cruel?”

Bran was already returning, having added by now another glass to hand.

“What’s the Valyrian word for ‘overkill?’”

“There isn’t one.”

Bran couldn’t tell whether or not she was lying.

He poured. Listening the ‘pat pat’ of Talisa playing with her hands again. It were as though the tidal wave of smallness and stress which had threatened to drown him only moments ago had never even come. Sounding brighter than he had done so far, Bran offered her a glass of wine rich in its oaky scent.

She held it aloft before her. “Cheers, then, to the Starks and their weekend well spent!”

No matter how proud the vintage, Westerosi wine had the well-known reputation of forever disappointing drinkers from Essos.

Talisa though seemed satisfied enough. She exhaled loudly, all but smacking her lips as she savored what was for her a small taste of home.

Then her eyes sparkled with amusement as she fixed them onto Bran. More of this. Everyone’s favorite sport—torment Bran.

Ignoring it as giddy impatience practically made her rattle atop the barstool, Bran asked innocently, “Robb asleep?”

“I wouldn’t know, would I?” a playful arch to her brow. “I’m in Sansa’s room.”

He nodded. “Right.”

“Anyways, he’s asleep.”

Bran chuckled. The wine was making him blush. It was pleasantly warm, spreading warmth up and down his chest.

He found himself lost in concentration, tracing with his eyes the smatterings of cracks in the granite’s pattern.

Across from him, and Bran realized in muted shock he’d forgotten her presence for a second, Talisa asked, “What’s the matter pickle?”

“What? Oh. I dunno.”

“I expect they’re still teasing you something awful?”

Bran heard Summer chuff behind him in an annoyed sort of rest.

“Yeah.” He allowed another sip. Would Theon tell Robb or Jon about their scuffle? “It’s pretty awful.”

“I don’t know how you lot manage. So many of you. I’ve only got the one. And I’ve got his number should he ever try to pull some of that shit with me.” That’s right, it was just Talisa and her younger brother. _Like Meera and Jojen._ “I know it can be kind of awkward discussing those things with family.”

Bran gave a hollow laugh.

Talisa frowned. “What’s up?”

“Huh? Oh. Well, I just thought. That would imply you’re meant to discuss it with friends. Where in this case, my friend _is_ her family.”

“That’s true. Jojen’s not just any old friend.” She nodded sadly, swallowing another taste of wine.

“And Meera’s not just any old sister. Not that—” Bran gave a noncommittal wave, “—my sisters are replaceable or anything. But the Reeds, they’ve only ever had each other. Sometimes I think…”

He broke off and shook his head. He’d taken to squashing his thumb into the countertop pattern.

“It’s like she partially raised him.”

Talisa laid her hands flat like she was laying a plan. “Okay. Possibly smidge more dire than I understood it originally. But not necessarily a disaster. What does Jojen say of it?”

“He tries not to say anything.”

“Can you tell if it bothers him?” _Yes._

“He tries not to say anything,” Bran repeated. “He did tell me once that he doesn’t appreciate me lying to him. But at that time, he also went out of his way to make it 100% clear doesn’t want to know _anything_.”

“Well…you could talk to me. I’m something of a mixture between friends and family.”

He shook his head again. That wasn’t the point, he wasn’t explaining it right.

Bran made a defeated noise and slumped forward, hiding among his elbows on the countertop.

Talisa’s hands fell from her hair to the stem of her wine glass. She seemed to be chewing her words for a good long while, watching him.

“Do you…regret it?”

He had to think about it first.

Bran said in fairness, “I regret the aftermath.”

Talisa hummed wisely into her glass. “Sex can have fallout. Not all the time, to be sure. But for the first time with someone? More often than not, I’d wager.”

“This isn’t the first time we’ve slept together.”

To her credit, Talisa kept relatively a straight face though her eyes popped wide for half a heartbeat. “What?” she asked, blinking. “So this _is_ a thing!”

“No,” Bran said hastily. “It’s not a thing.”

“Well, if you’ve already—”

“Listen—”

“I don’t understand what the pr—”

“It just sucks is all,” Bran cut in and he was surprised at the terseness in his own voice.

“…It sucks?”

He sighed. “It wasn’t meant to go public. I mean, obviously, the way we went about it—mistakes. I was wasted.” Bran rubbed and dragged his hands over his face to scrub away the exhaustion. His father’s disappointment. The upshot of fury in his fight with Theon. “I was really quite happy and now it’s all fucked.”

“Aww, _no_ , Bran,” Talisa urged suddenly sounding quite upset. “Bran, they only take the mickey out of you because they know it gets to you. But they don’t really care—I mean, they don’t really judge. They’re just mildly curious. And they want you to be happy.”

Nothing in particular came across wrong about her words. But still…Bran would not accept them.

“Ohh, I hope you don’t let their teasing sap away your happiness, it would so defeat the point.”

“I don’t want them to know.”

“What?”

He’d spoken so quietly, the words had been intelligible. He tried again. “I didn’t want them to know. But they’ll know now…They know I like her.”

The admission seemed only to perplex Talisa. She blinked all the more, bemused.

“Like her? Well, yes, I suppose that’s true. It’s usually expected in this kind of territory. To be fair they can probably tell the same for her—”

He shook his head.

It was nearing the surface.

“No? What do you mean?”

“She…doesn’t like me.”

He hated the way Talisa’s responses were coming more and more slow. She’d been so peppy. He didn’t need the over-serious way she was staring at him. Her mouth slightly open. That expression.

The wheels of Talisa’s brain looked to be going along rather fast. “…What?”

“Meera.” Bran found his voice. “She doesn’t like me.”

It had slipped out.

“Well…of course she likes you.”

Talisa had wormed it out of him, but Bran wanted to catch the worm and cram it back inside his chest before it slithered too far.

“She’s slept with you—”

“Sure, she likes me well enough for _that._ ”

“What??” Talisa leaned back atop her barstool, her hands pushing out on the counter surface. “What do you mean, she doesn’t like you… “This girl, Meera…she doesn’t care about you?”

“No, she cares. She does. I mean, I’m Jojen’s best friend. She and I have been mates since—”

“She likes being with you. She cares about you. But she…?”

How to cast it? “She doesn’t like me, not—not the way that—”

No. They had gotten off track. He was tired, Talisa didn’t know any of the players, he wasn’t explaining it right. Bran’s ideal number for things to happen during the weekend ranged from about 0.5 to 1. And in this weekend, all of it.

He’d stumbled somehow into sleeping with Meera. And his siblings had all found out, all at once, all publicly. And Meera had allowed that they might sleep together again. It was all happening at once and he did not need to contend with Eddard Stark’s icy solemn gaze or Theon’s cackling or with the jokes shot back and forth in the van or before their parents.

Bran gave a start when a hand closed over his.

Talisa’s hand was pleasantly warm. And her grasp, though firm, was all tenderness.

“No, I just—”

But Talisa cut him off. “So you have, as we call it in the medical community, a small case of the feelings for this girl?”

“No,” he said hastily. She was trying to use humor to disarm him but he had to make her understand. He didn’t need that. “That is…no more than she has for me. No more than, you know, normal. In these circumstances.”

“Well, have you asked—”

“No,” Bran cut in, just as hasty. “No. We’re not—we don’t…No.”

She let him off the hook with a nod.

Talisa withdrew her hand as she folded her arms on the edge of the countertop to lean against them, and Bran relaxed a little.

“Well, what I want is for you is to be happy. And what it is that gets you into your own happiness, I’ll support you.” _How formal._

“Do you think I’m making a mistake?”

Talisa pressed her lips together. “I don’t know.”

“I think,” he started, voice more solid than it had been for quite some time, “I think that…despite how everyone found out and it got all fucked, I think…that this weekend…was brilliant.” She inclined her head, listening. “I do. I think that she and I have been attracted to each other for a while. And it—it works. It really does, quite well.”

Talisa made to finish the very last of her wine. Bran decided to do the same with his, swift.

“Yes, there’s a bit of an insecurity thing. You know, she’s Meera. Well, you don’t know, but still. She’s… _Meera._ I’ve had a crush on her for ages. And with her being older than me, cooler than me—she’s always just been more worldly than me.”

“You need to give yourself more credit but go on.”

“I was already a little bit nervous to go with her into this territory. And then all the teasing. But—also—that’s just it. Meera wouldn’t be intimidated. She _breathes_ adventure.”

“Nervous, no,” Talisa agreed doggedly. “Not intimidated, and also not caring?”

“What? No.” Talisa was thinking Meera cold. Why couldn’t he explain it?

“Bran,” she said before he could start. “I’m not going to try to explain at you a situation that you’re in and I’m not. And let us just recall again, real quickly, that your siblings are a bunch of assholes, who only want to tease you because they love and hate you, and that there is truly no judginess to it whatsoever. We’re talking about _your_ siblings. The first person I met today—yesterday—who was coherent enough to make any sense was your brother Jon, who was wrestling with your youngest brother Rickon, who was at the time half naked with vomit on his shoes. I saw Robb carrying them away, giggling.”

Bran digested the image, that along with his wine. _A bunch of assholes, truly,_ he thought fondly.

“And, honestly, what part about the bit with Meera doesn’t sound awesome? Apart from everyone else being a dick. I mean the bit with _you_ and _her_. Who doesn’t want to spend some years in their twenties hooking up with their hot friend?”

“Yeah…”

“But I’m going to ask of you one thing just to secure an old woman’s heart.” Her finger carved a little heart across her chest. Bran was suspicious. “Would you promise me—”

“Promise you?”

“Yes, promise me. Would you go so far as to promise me that you’ll be careful? That’s all. However unwarranted my worried bleatings might be…I know you’re smart. And I know you and this Meera person are two good people, both. But in the matters of love—and for good measure I’m going to include in that matters of the loins as well—even the wisest men are often turned to fools.”

 _Hmm._ That had a ring of truth. Even a bit of eloquence, Bran thought. Which it probably would have retained more of had Talisa not immediately followed up with, “Love’s a tricky bitch, and she can fuck us all.”

“Uh…”

“You’re a good person, a nice person. And you deserve to have someone looking out for you. So just promise me…you’ll try to be that person?”

Bran was flummoxed. He was touched by how earnest Talisa’s naturally flowy tones had become.

Remember to be careful—he thought he liked that. His father, Jojen, Talisa, even Jon—none of them had technically demanded a stop _._ But it was only with Talisa he felt, not merely that one of his decisions had someone’s muted tolerance, but that any of his decisions would have someone’s support.

He looked up from the granite countertop. As his sights fell on her, the little rediscovery of how lovely Talisa was broke over him like warmth. “Okay,” he said. “I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show canon? I don't know her.  
> A/N: Author’s note aka “author’s excuse box.”  
> I don’t think I’ve updated for like 2 months, which is when I was begrudgingly hired full-time. Where time goes to die.  
> AND in what turns out is nothing but Nightmare Town--being tasked to plan my only sibling's wedding in little more than THREE MONTHS. Which takes place in another city only reachable by car 4 hours away. (Preparations for a sibling's wedding may actually crop up the story should I get there in the year 2047. Just know that I actually wrote it before my sot brother even proposed some months ago. That is a testament to both the slowness of my writing and how pro-stress that wedding is planned. So only if a character doing wedding planning [goes into a corner and starts crying](http://68.media.tumblr.com/e7aa88f6a3669ba28bc0c6b9eeccf96b/tumblr_inline_ona0cpZI111r5k0gp_400.gif) will that be a self-insert.
> 
> Still the same in that I actually really like this story and am determined to finish it on principle. (And ppl leaving comments and kudos—gahh!! Brightens my day from the dark sea of capitalism and pissy responsibilities)


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